


Detachment

by bonehandledknife (ladywinter)



Series: detach and retrieve [1]
Category: DCU
Genre: BDSM elements, Bottom Bruce Wayne, Bottom Clark Kent, Character Study, Control Issues, D/s themes, Detached Penis, Kryptonian Biology, M/M, NSFW, Porn With So Much Plot, Praise Kink, Trust Issues, Worldbuilding, Yes all of them, dick picture that ended up massive I am so sorry I don't know how to smaller, i didn't think I'd get here but here we are, let me know if I'm missing tags, my artist just called this thing wholesomely nsfw and idk how to feel, ok look its plot related, sentient penis, smaller on mobile will bigger on desktop if anyone has any advice plz halp, so much, taking elements from comics/animated/movies, they're both service tops lets be real, watch me turn some bullshit on its head with more bullshit, yeah you saw that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 15:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19403224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywinter/pseuds/bonehandledknife
Summary: “Master Bruce, of all the things I’d ever expected to walk in on—” Alfred began, with great prejudice. “I do hope there’s a good explanation for this.”Bruce, clad in a black bathrobe, looked up from his microscope. A disembodied penis, from its place on the table, raised its head too.They appeared to regard one another then Bruce turned to shake his head at Alfred.“No.”“‘No’?”“No, I don’t have a good explanation.”Alfred paused in thought. “Well.”Bruce is politely poked in the cheek by a flying dick one night. Hijinks, and more worldbuilding than you can shake a dick at, ensue.





	1. Oops, as summarized by both Watson and Doyle

**Author's Note:**

> It takes a village. Much love to my alpha reader [moonbelowsea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbelowsea) who has helped me through many a writer's block and cheerread like a boss. Thanks also goes to materassassino for hand-holding and helping me pinpoint places of confusion, as well as [BSCAO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatShitCrazy) and [cattyk8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattyk8) for that and also grammar wrangling and inspiring new scenes. And many many thanks for [susiecarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter) for an amazing final readthrough and beta because god, yes, my grammar IS that inconsistent and how does sentence? I don't know. Thank you all for your patience and helping me despite busy schedules.
> 
> Thanks also to the mmbb discord server, I'd originally had a different plan for the bang but [Thonksgiving](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/mmbb_thonksgiving2018) and discord server injokes happened and then. Well. 3k words later and Dusty was telling me to just make it my submission and so here we are.
> 
> Supreme love and thanks goes to the rest of Team Banned From Tumblr, the artist sdiosb and [SDeeyS](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/728902). You guys are amazing and hilarious and sweet, and I am so honored and delighted to have collaborated with you in this tomfoolery.
> 
> Never have I been so simultaneously delighted and appalled at what I am posting.
> 
> Enjoy. ^_~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
> 
> _“He who would be serene and pure needs but one thing, detachment.”_  
>  _Meister Eckhart_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning. Dick pic. 
> 
> Size: Large

* * *

_“Humour is a form of self-detachment.”  
Claude Roy_

_“Detachment is an art of enjoying something while always being open to the possibility of losing it someday.”  
John B. Bejo_

* * *

Clark had always liked sleeping in the sunlight. It was comfortable and snuggly and just so _refreshing._

Even if it left his dick feeling new and raw for some reason.

He'd never mentioned this to his parents because, _why. No. Let’s just._

 _Let’s move on._

(It’s not like he’d ever imagined that, after his body had collected enough sunlight, his dick simply detached and flew off, leaving him to grow a new one.) 

_(Because that’s just absurd.)_

(Kryptonian healing is a magical and instant sorta thing.) 

—

**Modern Kryptonian Culture of the 26,000th Century by Ollohni Kla-Zus**

[accessed: 3 times, Fortress. 1 time remotely.]

**The Rise of the Science Caste: 21,300 KTE to 26,703 KTE by Knim-La, Sar Na-Vez, Suyh-Tol, and Associates**

[accessed: 2 times, Fortress.]

**Traditional Songs and Lullabies**

[accessed: 5 times, Fortress. 231 times remotely.]

—

**{untranslateable, suggestion: ‘Urban Dictionary’}, pre-20,000 KTE**

_{alternate translations: Linguistic Drift Patterns of Colloquial Usage, Historic Regional Youth Slang, Ancient Colloquial Low Kryptonian}_

_[with annotations from the tablet of Jor-El]_

The Kryptonian word for ‘husband’ directly translates to ‘seeker who has found’. 

A shortened form of the title can mean either ‘virile Kryptonian partner who swarmed me with their penii’ or ‘dickhead’, depending on the intonation and context.

The Kryptonian word for ‘wife’ directly translates to ‘one who is found and claims in return’.

Its colloquial form, used as an insult, means roughly a combination of ‘not enough balls to find an ass in the dark’ and ‘you don’t produce enough cocks’.

Its colloquial form, used affectionately, means ‘my dick has Chosen you.’

_[Most of these forms have dropped out of usage to be replaced by those who label themselves {untranslatable, suggestion: ‘female’} and thus willing to be courted. This is denoted by females taking on their father’s name in their surname.]_

_[Kryptonian is a very nuanced language.]_

[accessed: 0 times]

—

Bruce felt a tapping on his cheek.

He pretended to be asleep and took stock of himself: a little refreshed from a sleep cycle but still drained from patrol. Minor injuries twinged all over him. 

Indications of failure, but part of the learning process. He was returning to the rhythm of things without Robin; Dick had left for Metropolis University less than a week ago. It’d left various spaces around the cave and the manor empty, but Bruce forced himself to adapt.

Which meant that the tapping on his cheek wasn’t Dick. Alfred did his utmost not to disturb Bruce’s sleep unless there was a pending deadline or other disaster, in which case he announced himself verbally and by turning on the lights rather than risk Bruce coming awake swinging.

_An intruder?_

There wasn’t a physical presence in the room. No one loomed over him emitting body heat. Even as he felt another curious tap on his cheek. 

_An animal?_

No sound accompanied the action. No escalation of motion, or attendant violence, even as Bruce pretended sleep. There was no other information to be gained unless Bruce prompted further response.

Bruce opened his eyes. 

Shoved himself backwards on the bed when he registered what he saw, sleep-pants dragging on the sheets with a hiss. And then fell back on protocol for being approached by unknowns of indeterminate sentience and threat level.

Which is to say: Observation and assessment at a distance. 

The penis, and it couldn’t have been anything but a penis, tilted its cockhead sideways, as if in thought. It was a bizarre, curiously emotive, and physically impossible movement for human genitalia. 

Which it appeared to be. Even though it was unattached to a person. 

It was floating in mid-air.

art by SDeeyS [More [here](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/728902)]

Bruce blinked.

He should— _hmm. Well._ There wasn’t exactly a contingency plan for this sort of thing. Unless it was a _Situation: Tentacles, Sub-class Poison Ivy._

The disembodied genitalia was thick and of above average length. It was also hard, nearly purple with it. (Making ‘Sub-class Poison Ivy’ 50% more likely.) Or was the purple simply its skin tone? 

It flew a bit closer to him, balls bouncing with the movement, and Bruce backed up a bit further. In the spirit of pure scientific inquiry. 

He was testing its responses.

It wilted a little, giving the impression of being melancholy.

Bruce didn’t know why he found himself anthropomorphizing a set of cock and balls, how it even existed in the first place, or how it could float, but. 

_Gotham._

He had honestly seen stranger things at this point. Probably. Most likely. 

Assuredly.

He needed to update safety protocols, at any rate.

Bruce eyeballed the penis. Data was what he needed.

The average erect penis was about 5.2 inches long, but this one was definitely longer than that already. It remained in position, still slumped in what Bruce couldn’t help but characterize as abject dismay. 

There was something about its ‘body language’ that struck him as genuine; perhaps a bit simple, but well-meaning. Then again, no matter the colloquialisms about a guy's ‘penis brain’, Bruce was well aware that for genitalia, it was displaying positively genius-level intellectual capacity. (Given that genitalia should have no measure of intelligence at all. Or float. Or be detached from a body. Or appear to be emotional. Or—)

Bruce thought about it, checked his mental shields, checked them again, then gave in. 

He lifted a hand, wary, his focus sharp, and reached forward. The cock perked up but stayed motionless. It trembled as if in anticipation as Bruce’s hand got closer. Stiffened against Bruce’s fingers like a cat seeking strokes, as his fingertips grazed the surface, and the penis felt like nothing so much as skin.

But so eerily warm. As if there were a person attached, or a small sun.

The cock floated up into his tightening grip; Bruce brought up another hand to support the dangling balls, and it fairly _vibrated_ once he was cupping them. 

Which he was doing in order to explore where the genitals would ordinarily be attached to a person.

Of course. 

Smooth. None of the scarring or irregularity that would occur if the penis had been cut or torn off someone.

A relief.

Bruce considered the other options. There was no synthetic material that was this realistic, and no mechanism currently known to science that could produce this kind of levitation; besides which, no sound or other feedback had yet been emitted by the cock that indicated it was anything other than what it appeared to be. Which was a disembodied pair of balls attached to a… very enthusiastic and curiously emotive erection.

_Probably magic._

It fairly thrashed in his hand when Bruce clenched his fist to test the strength of the skin (if it was organic) or material (if it had been artificially created). Inadvertently, for lack of a better word, he was—giving it a handjob. The cock was almost mesmerizing: it hardened impossibly further and filled his grip, slotted nicely into his palm. Just a little too wide for his fingers to close around it. When Bruce tightened his hand, the tips of his middle finger and thumb just barely met.

Bruce had big hands. Long fingers. 

His eyes were dry from not blinking. He stroked the cock faster and it just pushed into his grip more, grinding its balls into his palm so hard that human testicles would almost certainly have suffered damage.

Bruce’s own cock was hard.

This realization surprised him so much that he lost his grip, and the disembodied penis flopped onto his bare chest. Bruce usually slept in only loose pants. He was not entirely sure if he regrets that choice now.

They both paused. Bruce blinked down at it. For a moment, it lay as if in shock; then the cock slid itself _languidly_ —Bruce couldn’t think of any other word for it—into the groove between his pectorals.

_Oh my god._

The cock peeked up as if Bruce had spoken out loud, and maybe he had. It slid its way up to the base of his throat as if seeking the sound.

“Oh my god.”

Bruce felt liquid on his collarbone; the cock had blurted precome at his voice. _If_ that was what the liquid was, presumably, should he base his guess on known biology. 

The cock skimmed upward, along Bruce’s throat, leaving a wet trail.

Bruce’s mind raced, but it was full of white noise. He felt stuck in a state of observation, outside himself. The cock had worked its way to Bruce’s jawbone and was tracing it as if enthralled. As if it were a cat, marking its territory.

Bruce pulled back to stare at it. The cock let him, though it bobbed towards him, as if seeking him out. 

“Wait,” he said.

And it paused. Head tilting again, as if in question. 

He made a mental note that it could both perceive and follow verbal commands in English. 

_Interesting._

He squinted at the disembodied cock.

And then he reached over to his side table and rifled through the top drawer. Got out a foil packet, and bopped the cock on the head.

“Nothing’s happening unless it’s with this.”

The cock gave off an air of confusion but amicably floated in front of him at a good distance for Bruce to work. It straightened up, as if at attention.

Bruce took this data point in silently, and then slipped the condom on.

Whereupon the cock clearly became disoriented and started listing about drunkenly in the air, until it lost control and crashed into his sheets. It wormed through them in very apparent despair until Bruce took pity on it and dragged the condom off. 

It shook itself, then flopped onto the mattress with dismay.

He waited for a moment, and then a moment more, but the cock didn’t make any more overtures. In fact, it twisted around and drifted its way towards the balcony doors as if to leave.

“If you’re willing to get tested,” Bruce suggested, tamping down on a smirk, “we could go without.”

The cock perked up and zipped over to divebomb into the sheets, wiggling over to Bruce to poke hopefully at his thigh.

—

**[Draft] Primitive Kryptonian Fauna and the Rise of Communities: A Population Integration Study**

_[with annotations from the tablet of Jor-El]_

Krypton is a large planet. Its landmass is over ten times that of any other habitable planets surveyed to date _[such as Earth and other possible landing-planets. See draft Untitled197667],_ but much of it is craggy and inhospitable. Difficult to navigate, comparatively sparsely vegetated, and full of predators. While Kryptonians were also pursuit predators _[much like Earth sentients, more points in their favor]_ , they weren’t descended from hyper-social communal animals. On Krypton, pockets of fertile land were small and scattered and rarely supported more than one or two family units. 

_[The densely fertile sweeping valleys available to Earth’s prehistoric sentients are a miracle in comparison to that available on most planets. Such locationally-focused abundance of resources would have encouraged the rise of communities to a frankly unprecedented degree early on in the evolution of Earth’s sentient beings (initial research indicated they established cities over 9,000 years ago! Before even steam travel had been achieved! Preposterous!); perhaps even hardwiring empathy into their natural biological urges. Such a population would be more welcoming to refugees than most.]_

Culture and civilization, when they initially arose for Kryptonians, did so with relative slowness compared to those of sentients from other planets. Inhospitable terrain, and larger overall landmass, resulted in a lack of settlements larger than one or two family units. _[On planets such as Earth, sentients would evolve communities long before any major scientific or philosophical breakthroughs, whereas on Krypton it was the opposite.]_

Villages were only begun as a philosophical experiment around the 21,000th century, under deliberate social pressure from leading philosophers. These settlements bore fruit and led to specialization and communal effort on large-scale projects. Within 500 years, the innovation of the village spread through the entire population of the planet.

 _[It’s more efficient to combine resources, even when scattered over vast distances;_ **_especially_ ** _when scattered. More efficient to be connected. It’s right and good to ignore our base nature’s urge to be separate and alone.]_

The leaders of communities were the intellectual elite. The cultural dominance of the scientific upper class made it easy in the 22,000th century KTE for the bulk of Kryptonian society to turn to artificial reproduction _{see also:_ _Codex_ _}._ Especially when natural biological urges were so inconvenient.

_[Who wants to be attacked by a naked flying penis at the office anyway? No one. Not a single person actually ever wants unsolicited dicks.]_

_[_ _Bookmark_ _: The effect of Earth’s sunlight on vestigial {untranslatable: suggestion ‘mitochondriophylls’} merits further study. Would Kryptonians have spore-like flight capability on planets with more available yellow-spectrum energy waves despite mitochondriophylls being far less dense in non-reproductive organs?]_

[accessed: 0 times]

—

“Master Bruce, of all the things I’d ever expected to walk in on—” Alfred began, with great prejudice. “I _do_ hope there’s a good explanation for this.”

Bruce, clad in a black bathrobe, looked up from his microscope. A disembodied penis, from its place on the table, raised its head too.

They appeared to regard one another; then Bruce turned to shake his head at Alfred.

“No.”

“‘No’?”

“No, I don’t have a good explanation.”

Alfred paused in thought. “Well.”

Over the very many years that he had watched over the Waynes’ boy, Alfred had been party and observer to a great many things. Much of it bizarre and unseemly. 

_But there are limits,_ Alfred thought. Or there ought to be.

Bruce returned to the microscope, the penis still perked up and ‘looking’ back and forth between him and Alfred. Until Bruce reached out with an absent hand to pet it until it subsided.

“...At least you know that you don’t,” Alfred stated.

Bruce grunted. Concentrated on the viewfinder.

The penis expanded slightly then went limp, as if heaving a great sigh of boredom. _My word._

“I presume you wont need me until morning?”

“I can take care of myself until the afternoon, Alfred.”

“As you will,” Alfred said, and took his leave. 

_Now, where did I put the earplugs?_

—

**Kryptonians versus Lesser Beings: Sentience, Perception, and Spatial Theory by Illga Ro-Jem**

In this paper, physicists postulate it may be possible to confirm sentience in beings who inhabit only 4 spatial dimensions, or fewer; explore the implications of communications with these beings; and expand on the perceptual limitations inherent in these communications.

In the same way that to a 2D circle a 3D sphere appears perceptually to be anything from a dot to a very long line, a Kryptonian (inhabiting five spatial dimensions) can in theory perfectly mimic an inhabitant of the 4th dimension with some concentration. Accordingly, for a 1D point, a 3D sphere will always appear to resemble a point.

To a 3rd-dimensional being, a Kryptonian can achieve a similar appearance to a 3D native with no effort whatsoever.

Given that learning AIs have been recently achieved with 3D isobutylkorinminate chips, it could be safe to presume that the electronic pathways necessary to give rise to sentience can be achieved by beings who only occupy 3D space.

Attempting to parse 3D space in 3D perspective, however, is disorientating for most Kryptonians in much the same way that conceptualizing 6th or 7th dimensional space is difficult. And to an inhabitant of 3D space, what would be considered normal movement and abilities by a Kryptonian would appear to be nothing short of magic.

But despite these difficulties in mutual perception, and thus communication, interaction with such sentients could allow breakthroughs in lower-dimensional physics. Additionally, the sociological and philosophical implications of the existence of sentient beings that survive with the disadvantages of only inhabiting the lower spatial dimensions could have profound impacts on the conceptualization of the self and the community.

[accessed: 0 times]

—

Clark yawned and skimmed past the titles of at least 50 more articles clogging up the Fortress’ storage. He’d been tempted to just trash the more bigoted sociological studies but hesitated due to some sort of combined guilt and regret. 

It didn’t mean that he was going to bother reading faux-science propaganda about “Lesser Beings”, though, _geeze._

He didn’t need that shit in his brain.

—

While the skin of the disembodied cock was impenetrable, and thus impossible to collect, the fluids (precome? Bruce would have to wait for the processing to complete to say that with assurance) it’d submitted appeared to be, according to all current tests, human. 

It also delivered a negative on all STD panels. And didn’t tip off the amulet that sensed malignant magic. 

Still, there were a couple more tests that Bruce wanted to run, for safety’s sake.

“Almost there,” he said quietly, as he worked the collection rod down the urethra. “Shhh, don’t move.”

He rubbed the trembling cock with his other hand, and hummed at it, and kept inserting slowly, until the rod came to a stop. When Bruce gave it a little more pressure, the trembling increased and the cock grew more flushed. He gave the collection rod a little twist and then started removing it.

But before he could fully pull it out, the cock fairly leapt off his hand to _stuff itself full again._

Bruce blinked, flushed also, and shifted on the stool. Ignored his own erection.

“All right,” he said roughly, throat dry. 

He… hadn't thought this through, possibly. Bruce had never been particularly interested in sounding himself, or in performing the act on others.

Usually.

The cock shivered in his hands. 

Bruce swallowed, nodded. _This, this was data._ It could tell him a great deal about nerve responses and locations. He gripped the cock firmly and started working the rod back in. It wasn’t an overly large sound, it shouldn’t dilate the urethra any, but he presumed that an object inserted in there would feel as odd to a detached penis as it would to any person. 

But perhaps it created as much stimulation, too.

And perhaps, Bruce thought, as he inserted the rod to its full length, the cock thrumming in obvious pleasure, it had something there that functioned very much like a prostate gland. _Something_ was producing the precome, so an analogous structure had to exist. He’d previously presumed the seminal vesicles, bulbourethral glands, and the prostate were all located in the scrotum, because on a human they were located much further inside the pelvis. In theory, the necessary gland couldn’t be contained in the same space as the base of a penis, where it attached to the scrotum. And yet...

He slid the rod gently in and out, watching the cock’s reactions; it was nearly squirming _into_ the sounding. And Bruce thought that there was certainly one simple way to test his hypothesis. He pulled the rod out a little and pressed on the cock's base, the smooth back roughly opposite where the rod would hit—and it _thrashed,_ quivering, the rod even pushing itself out a little from the force of it. 

When Bruce removed it completely, the rod was stained with white ejaculate. _(‘Ejaculate’? But what else can it be?)_

“I’ll—” Bruce has to clear his throat. “I’ll run the panels on this.”

The cock gave a bob of its head, as if in permission, then collapsed onto Bruce’s lap. It curled itself limply around Bruce’s straining dick.

Only his silk robe separated them.

Bruce swallowed and focused, turning back to his microscope and spectrometers.

—

An hour so later that night, they were both freshly clean and Bruce was back in bed, staring at the cock perched on his pillow. It was very striking. A 6.3” erect penis would be in the 95th percentile of penile length; the disembodied specimen before him measured 8.1”, fully plumped up. In full light it was dusky, olive-toned, shading purple at most angles. None of its stats or coloring matched that of known metahumans.

“For all intents and purposes, you appear to be a very large but nevertheless very human cock.”

It bobbled in his direction, agreeably.

“Are you magic? One for yes, two for no.”

It nodded three times. _Inconclusive._

“Then what _are_ you?”

No response. A subtle lift and slouch, as if to shrug.

“Do you mean me harm?”

A firm double tap: no.

Based on prior evidence, it seemed to respect his wishes. Also, given its responses, Bruce was tempted to test its intelligence levels.

“You do realize I’m not going to do anything with you until all the test results come in and I have proof that your… _fluids_ are stable.”

 _Yes,_ it bobbled.

“Then. I’m going to bed now,” Bruce stated blandly. “I need my sleep.”

It nodded once.

Bruce warily lay down on the mattress, half expecting the cock to argue the matter. He drew his blanket and comforter up. There was a long moment during which Bruce observed the cock and the strange genitalia seemed to observe him right back, a long ‘stare’-down between Bruce’s eyes and the slit of the cock. 

Bruce refused to blink first. He wasn’t sure whether the slit even could ‘blink’, but he wasn't letting that stop him.

At last the cock flopped over. 

_Hah._

The cock wiggled some, working its way slowly closer—despite the fact that they both knew very well it could just fly.

It paused, seemed to observe him, then inched closer yet.

Bruce did nothing but breathe. And watched as it sidled over, carefully, as if uncertain of its welcome.

Bruce closed his eyes and felt it nudge up delicately against his face. He let himself lean into it a bit.

It pressed against him in response. Smelling only of sun-washed skin, a thickness in the depths of the scent recalling the feel of a summer’s noontime. Air and light and heat become solid. 

It was vaguely familiar.

And despite his plans to stay awake all night and observe, maybe mentally revise some patrol routes or rework some katas or map out a new code for a filter algorithm, despite all this, and despite himself... Bruce slept.

—

By the look of the light in his room, it should be about 11am. While he truly disliked mornings, Bruce preferred the manor rooms with east-facing windows. And he was somewhat attached to this room in particular. It overlooked his mother’s gardens. 

He yawned and tried to wake up further, feeling remarkably well rested. 

Then he looked over toward the floor-length glass doors that lead out to the balcony.

Lying in front of the closed doors, basking in a broad patch of sunlight like some indolent cat, was a large cock and its plush set of balls. It raised its head up when Bruce peered over at it, but then it simply dropped back down to resume what appeared to be sunbathing. It gave off the impression of drawing in light, almost an inverse glow, even as it lounged in the sun.

Bruce got up and then stared at it for a bit, feeling his brow furrow but unable to stop himself or understand why.

He walked over to his armchair and grabbed the throw from the back of it. Dropped it onto the floor by the cock.

“Don’t alarm Alfred,” he said to it. “Or trip him up.”

The disembodied cock bobbled once, and then floated over to the throw.

“Stay in the room. I’ll come back tonight. It’d be hard to explain you appearing in the rest of the manor.”

The cock just turned around—one and a half times—in its new nest. As if settling in for a nap. ‘Facing’ away from him.

Bruce huffed and left to get ready for work.

—

**[Draft] Misc Note For Later Paper**

_—archived from the tablet of Jor-El_

The intellectual acuity of genitalia, if left to their own devices instead of curbed by chemical restraint, would probably vary in direct relation to the acuity possessed by the body from which they detached. 

It is not inherent within the genitalia themselves to act crassly, but is as much a product of nurture as Kryptonians themselves.

[accessed: 0 times]

—

For all that it was an unattached bit of naked genitalia, the cock knew how to blend in. It had been following its current Chosen around for about three weeks, and the man seemed to be consistent in his doings and in his intent, the hours he came and left.

For years it had wandered the Earth, searching. Origin Body had taken up with a weak Potential that _still_ hadn’t healed from detaching a spore, poor thing, and the cock knew it could find better. 

Maybe it was just a matter of resources? The cock had the impression that there should be much more spawning occurring in general, that it and its brethren shouldn't be the only ones flying around. In fact, about half of the population seemed to either have never recovered from detachment or—and this was a dizzying concept— _hadn't even been born with a spore!_ And never grew one! 

Were resources so scarce now that its origin body was the only one producing?

Or were the others simply too lazy? It had sometimes spent time in what it’d later learned were ‘sex shops’, where other genitalia like it rested and didn’t even bother to move. Earth genitalia were strange and very aloof and unresponsive, it had found. Though it was a pretty convenient arrangement, to have prospective Chosen come to it rather than have to seek them out. But in the end the sex shops had just seemed cold, and no lasting candidates came from that method, so the cock had resumed searching on its own again.

Eventually it’d arrived in Gotham, and found a Potential who flew through the air. Much the same way it and its origin body did! 

And the Potential appeared to have many resources; it was simply stressed.

As the cock had followed the Potential around for several weeks observing his behavior, it had only been able to conclude that the man was Good.

This conclusion had been backed up when the cock had finally introduced itself. There had been no screaming _this_ time, as had sometimes happened. The man was gentle, if reticent. Gentle even if he’d been clearly starving for a sense of safety, given that his cock had never detached itself, during all those three weeks of observation, to search for a mate.

The man’s wariness made sense if he was so bereft and had been backed so thoroughly into a corner that he didn't feel able to release a spore. The cock had decided to wait for this ‘Bruce’ to feel safe before leading him back to its origin body.

And… the cock trembled a little, recalling being stuffed last night. If that decision resulted in keeping the man to itself for a while, what of it?

It wiggled down between the sheets, as origin body was resting. The cock had communed with the Potential’s genitalia before, but they were as stoic and restrained as the Potential himself.

The cock thought it was getting the hang of this, though.

 _Hi,_ it tapped, in polite greeting.

The Potential's cock didn’t say much in return, but it did twitch back. It was cute, how it tried to present the appearance of indifference, despite so clearly coming to attention when the cock rubbed up against it.

But the Potential needed rest, so the cock just nestled by its peer and rested too.

The Potential's unreleased spore settled back down against the cock after awhile, to the cock’s happy satisfaction.

—

It had been a full week of various tests. Of falling asleep with the cock either by his head or curled up next to his dick, and not once attempting anything untoward.

Bruce stopped by the cave’s labs before he went out to patrol. 

_Hmm._

All results still normal, still baseline, still clean. Sperm mitochondria appeared more numerous and oddly _denser_ than average, and that would be something Bruce would have to look into further. But there hadn’t been much fluid when the disembodied genitalia—for lack of a better word—ejaculated. Maybe a tenth the normal ejaculate amount of 2-5 ml; barely 6 drops at most. 

More samples were needed. 

He’d have to collect some later tonight for future testing.

Alfred, dusting monitors and displays, maintained a pointed distance from the labs. Bruce simply nodded at him and swept off, heading to the car.

—

**[Draft] Mating Habits of Prehistoric Kryptonian Fauna and its Impact on the Modern SocioCultural Landscape of the** **21,000th Century**

_—archived, with annotations, from the tablet of Jor-El_

Prehistoric Kryptonians 

  1. living on a very large, dangerous, planet
  2. living on single-family-sized patches of fertile land
  3. living in difficult-to-navigate, inhospitable, landscapes 



not only found it critical to search for a mate who could both diversify the genetic pool and best protect the home, but realized that that same search was very time consuming and even downright deadly. 

It was less resource-intensive to send out ‘Spores’ from one’s family settlement to scout for a Mate, and then bring them together or even simply fertilize them from afar, than to travel through and survive in unknown territory.

The result of this pattern of evolution is that upon reaching puberty, and amassing an as-yet-unquantified excess of energy and available environmental resources, the Kryptonian genitalia detaches itself and flies off in search of said Mate. Hence the common term ‘Spores’: like fungi.

There is an ancient Kryptonian religio-scientific school of asceticism that denounces the loss of mental function inherent in the mating urge. They preach that one should abstain from letting one’s penii detach and thus wasting one’s available mental capacity, usually accomplished by curtailing food intake and increasing one’s stress levels. This understanding was reached after observations of generations of youngsters that had reached their majority and been kicked out of the family unit. As they made their way in the world trying to find an area of fertile land, practically starved for lack of resources and safety, the pressure led them to make great leaps in ingenuity, math, and engineering. Subsequently their successes _{see also: osmosis mining, aeroculture, nuclear fission}_ gained them more resources and thus later made them more prolific, and competitive, in genital spore production.

During that same Spore production period, however, what had once been brilliance dramatically dropped off until the innovators managed to find, bond, and settle with their Chosen. A sheer waste of intellect that spanned, sometimes, several decades. 

Social philosophers have pointed out, however, that it is illogical and counterproductive _not_ to find one’s mate.

Thousands of years later, Kryptonian philosophy and technology advanced to the point where the first multi-family villages were chartered _{see also: History of the 22,000th Century, Building on Treachery and the Treacherous: The First Villages, 20 Most Important Scientific Innovations That Made Large Buildings Architecturally Possible},_ making it easier to locate one’s Chosen. Additionally, the technology of that era allowed one to pinpoint one’s Chosen via algorithms _{see also: Codex}._ Chemical suppression of the process whereby penile detachment occurred allowed more consistent use of the extra processing neurons located naturally in the genitalia. This allowed even further technological and philosophical advancements, such as cities.

_[Plus getting randomly hit in the face by a flying dick in the middle of the day wasted a lot of time. And became an occasional social and occupational safety hazard.]_

Available work and leisure hours boomed once mating and artificial insemination protocols were put into place.

Kryptonian society flourished.

_[Follow up later: what are the means by which Spores achieve flight? Could our vestigial mitochondriophylls serve energy conversion purposes and thus explain their absurd density in our genitalia?_

_Much has been made of the relative inefficiency of the mitochondriophylls compared to alternate energy pathways; there’s so little yellow light available on Krypton, except during spring. But that might indicate a correlation with spawning cycles.]_

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—

When Bruce came back from patrol and entered the room, the cock perked up from between Bruce’s pillows.

“Migrated back to the bed, did you?” 

Based on video surveillance, the cock appeared to spend most of its time either sunning itself or figuring out the bathroom. It’d figured out the jacuzzi controls the other day, and somehow managed to keep all the splashing to a minimum even as it had frolicked merrily in the tub. 

The probability of the genitalia originating from an oceanic species was rising. He would have to consult Arthur. Somehow. Without Arthur laughing in his face. 

_Hmm._

Bruce dropped a collection cup onto his side table and started shucking off his robe. He had already showered downstairs after patrol. 

He slid beneath his sheets and reached over. The cock came willingly to his hand, snuggling itself against his palm.

He stared at it. Thinking.

Brought it up to his mouth and let his lips rest on it briefly. Not even a kiss. The cock remained very still beneath his lips, if warm.

When he pulled back to look at it, it was plumped with a rosy blush. 

Bruce felt his mouth quirk. Brought his mouth to the base and felt the flush grow hotter. Felt the cock plump up further. He brought his tongue into play, tracing the shape and the veins, and it responded much like a real cock would. Tasted much like a real cock would too, skin rather than synthetic. Perhaps less musk than would be expected; more like it’d just come out of a shower than if it’d been stuffed into a pair of briefs all day. 

Bruce tongued around the foreskin and tasted beneath it. Clean. Only the taste of skin, no sweat, no residue.

It was hot in his mouth.

He pulled back and ran a thumb along the tender part beneath the head until a minuscule bead of precome welled up.

Bruce flicked his tongue out at it, then closed his eyes, concentrating. Pretty tasteless, also normal. He hummed consideringly as he slid the rest of it in, rolling his tongue as the head slid by it.

The balls pulled up and trembled.

Bruce pulled back. “Like that, do you?”

The cock twitched even more in his hand, violently flushed and slick with his spit, but didn’t try to move or get back into his mouth.

Polite.

“Let’s hold back on that awhile.”

It slumped a little.

Bruce tsked at it. “I didn’t say there’d be nothing. I still need to get samples.”

He brought the cock beneath the sheets and nestled it right by his erection. It fairly vibrated in what seemed like delight and frotted against him as if _thrilled._ The sensation was—Bruce’s eyes rolled back in his head as he gripped them together, using both hands to span their combined girth.

Dug his heels into the mattress. Gasped, raggedly. Started pumping them both.

The cock helped, thrusting into his hands as if there’d been a body behind it pressing himself against Bruce. Tentatively at first, then increasingly hard, until Bruce was basically _riding_ its thrusts, his hands just hanging on to the both of them as the cock worked itself so hard Bruce’s hips left the bed, their balls slapping against each other. He could feel both sets of balls tightening up.

Bruce barely had the presence of mind to pull the cock away once he felt himself start to come, to prevent cross-contamination of the sample; he sat up through his own aftershocks to work the cock furiously and milk its release into the collection cup. 

Maybe ten drops, if that.

Once it had gone limp, Bruce let himself collapse into his pillows, trying to catch his breath.

It was a moment before the cock started squirming its way up his arm. It seemed to tire once it reached his shoulders and just curled up under his chin.

Bruce let it, as he drifted off.

—

Clark smacked his mouth, waking up to brightness in his eyes. Stretched. Yawned. Stretched again, groaning with it, into the sunlight.

Something felt very right with the world.

Even if his dick felt weird. 

At least it was only tingly this time instead of raw.

He stared up at the ceiling. It’d been weird for the past week. He was pretty sure it wasn’t an STD, because he was Kryptonian; either he’d heal from it or he couldn’t even catch one in the first place. 

Besides, even more importantly, he’d broken up with Lois months ago, and he hadn’t tried dating since.

Somewhere, very far away, there was a tremendous crack. Clark jerked upright, listening. Screams rose from half a world away, followed by more cracking sounds, as if from stone and foundations. 

_“Earthquake!”_ someone shrieked.

Superman bolted into his uniform and flew off, not thinking of much else besides the people he was going to have to save.

—

“A _cat bed,_ Master Bruce.”

“It can’t keep using the throw.”

“Oh?”

“What if you accidentally wash it?”

“...of course.” Pause. “You _are_ disinfecting the thing, I hope.”

_“Alfred.”_

“Well?”

“I’m using adequate cleaning procedures. It seems to like the bath.”

“Very... good, then. I shall leave you to it.”

art by SDeeyS [More [here](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/728902)], actual cat bed found [here](https://www.aliexpress.com/item/Batman-Shape-Dog-House-Pet-Dog-Bed-Cat-Bed-House-For-Small-Medium-Dog-Warm-Pet/32828530466.html?src=google&albslr=230978847&src=google&albch=shopping&acnt=494-037-6276&isdl=y&slnk=&plac=&mtctp=&albbt=Google_7_shopping&aff_platform=google&aff_short_key=UneMJZVf&&albagn=888888&albcp=1582410664&albag=59754279756&trgt=760265873944&crea=en32828530466&netw=u&device=c&gclid=CjwKCAjwmNzoBRBOEiwAr2V27YY0XcVBUJtMX8y5DYZBFyoVAxyqiFULHeXmHbTQqvlEAEl6rQ-UYRoC0CgQAvD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds)

—

Having left the semen samples to sit, in various conditions (both moist and dry), allowed Bruce to conclude that it was not only human-safe but that previous results held: it was nothing more than regular ejaculate. Perhaps preternaturally sterile and healthy ejaculate, but ejaculate nonetheless.

His working hypothesis was that magic was involved somehow, even if the cock registered as null on all the magic detection modules and artifacts he possessed. He would need to look into a magician in the Gotham area who was both discreet and reliable.

Meanwhile:

“You need to be patient,” Bruce said out loud, on his belly, as he worked more fingers into his asshole. 

He wasn’t quite sure who he was saying it to—himself or his, um, companion. Which was to say: the cock tracing its head comfortingly against his cheek. 

It had previously been nestled against his ass, gently prodding at the place where Bruce’s fingers sank in. The sensation caused Bruce to let out an undignified noise and try to rush the prep. In response, it smacked at his hand then changed locations.

Honestly, using progressively larger dildos or other toys to stretch himself out would have been easier. But when Bruce had opened up his toy box, the cock had flown past him and started crashing against the various toys in the container. By the end of it, nothing was left intact. _Nothing._ Not even the ones made of metal. 

“Jealous?” Bruce had asked, even as he'd mentally estimated the pounds per square inch of force needed to rupture and shatter stainless steel in such a way, instead of simply deforming it. 

The cock had just tilted itself at Bruce, as if in challenge.

And that brought them here and now. Bruce was panting, trying to relax into his fingers, all but face-planted into a pair of balls as the cock beaded precome across his cheek. Bruce curled his pinkie into himself too, next to his other three fingers, but the angle was shit. Especially when he needed his other hand on his dick.

_Fuck it._

“I’m ready,” he gritted out, reaching out with the sloppily lubed hand he’d been using on his own dick to slick the cock up.

The disembodied cock tapped his cheek once, then slipped from beneath his face and into the blankets. There was a rustle and then its head was bumping up against his fingers. 

It was soft, hot. Wet.

Bruce moaned into the mattress and brought his other hand down so that he could crook both index fingers against his rim and tug it open. The cock fitted itself there, bumping repeatedly against his hole as if peppering it with kisses. Then harder, as if calmly shouldering his fingers aside. When Bruce obliged, it _pressed._

Bruce found his mouth opening with the pressure, sightless with it. He clutched at the sheets. A high-pitched sound left his throat.

It made the cock slow down.

But not stop.

It kept pressing until the head popped through and Bruce found his breaths heaving, chest shaking, legs shaking, arms _shaking._ Glad his shoulders were already pressed to the bed, glad he was already face-planted into the mattress. _God._

Bruce knew already, having taken larger before, that the cock was just barely less than too much. That it was just large enough to make the burn sweet, instead of lastingly sore, and the knowledge of that unwound him.

He relaxed into it, and the cock moved into him further, maybe half an inch. Paused.

Popped out again, then pushed back in, as if to savor the tight clench of his hole.

Bruce swore at it, and the cock changed angles, pulled back until its head kissed the rim sweetly. And then gave him that half inch back. He swore and it thrust again, maybe a quarter inch further, its head _twitching_ inside him causing Bruce to choke on his last vowel. It gave him another push. 

Bruce gasped into his sheets. It was almost there. Almost at his prostate, if it would just— 

“Deeper,” he demanded, breath rasping, as he tilted his hips into it.

The cock complied. Bruce jolted. Stars exploded behind his eyelids, and he was making some sort of noise but he couldn’t hear it past the roaring in his ears as the cock worked itself in quick short thrusts against his prostate, until the pleasure became too much; Bruce’s knees stopped holding him up, his hips collapsed onto the bed...

The cock only slipped further in at Bruce’s movement, with Bruce relaxing into the pressure and his rim quivering as more and more skin slid past those nerves. _Ah._

It wasn’t all smooth. There were some tight spots where the cock inside him slowed. Switched to little thrusts that loosened him up all over again, and then sank deeper. _A-aah._

Bruce didn’t know how to close his mouth anymore. The sheets beneath his mouth dampened, but he couldn’t be bothered to move. A high-pitched sound tried to rise from his throat, but he clamped down on it, as he clamped down on the heavy weight of the meat that sat fully inside him now, its balls resting on his.

_Oh, god._

It quivered, the sensation jolting his rim.

“Yes,” he said. 

“Move,” he said. 

_“Fuck me,”_ he said. 

And the cock seemed like it listened. Pulled out almost completely and bounced back in. 

Bruce growled, “Not like that, come _on.”_ Rolled his hips into its next thrust, getting his knees back beneath him. And that was a bit better, smoother. “Tilt back a little.”

It did. And, after another couple tries, got it right. Several thrusts more, and it was _perfect._ Bruce shoved himself back onto it until the cock completely took over, fucking him perfectly, even if it could be—

 _“Harder,”_ he demanded, and it listened, ramping up until Bruce could just barely breathe against the thrusts, the pleasure jaggedly racing through him, his ass being practically levitated as he was fucked, the cock reaming into him, sounding wet and _obscene._

 _Over 40,000 pounds per square inch,_ Bruce thought hysterically, eyes rolling back into his head as he came.

The cock vibrated within Bruce as he did. He wasn't sure whether it had made him come _again,_ or just prolonged his orgasm.

He tried to catch his breath.

The early morning was very quiet around him, except for the very first chirrups and occasional burst of cricket-song that floated over from the open window. Aftershocks twitched through his body, and it made the cock inside him twitch in echo, a vicious feedback loop that had the both of them valiantly trying to stiffen up again.

“Wait,” Bruce groaned. And turned over onto his back, away from the damp spot, staring sightlessly at his ceiling, the cock still nestled comfortably between his asscheeks. Heavy. Thick. Spreading his hole wide.

It tapped twice, within him: _No._

Started quivering.

Bruce practically choked on his tongue, but pulled his knees up. Slouched. Spread his thighs to open up his hips and give the cock more room.

“Fine,” he said, even as he threw his head back in a gasp. “But I have a meeting at 1pm.”

The cock gave him a single firm thrust in agreement.

And then started moving again.

—

For some reason, Clark was having an Amazing Day.

 _Must have woken up on the right side of the bed this morning,_ he thought. There wasn’t anything major happening in the world, and he felt so full of energy and joy.

It was a change from the past few months, where he’d been trying to adjust to life post-Lois. 

The discussion they’d finally had had been frank, if painful. They'd both wanted a family, but she couldn’t see it happening with her career and Clark being Superman. Lois’ father, General Lane, had been career military. She had seen up close what being an army wife was like, waiting for a partner to come home. She knew she couldn’t sustain being both a reporter and essentially a single parent when Clark was off-planet, or there was some major catastrophe. It wasn’t in her to wait on the sidelines; Lois wasn’t wired to stay still when things were happening. If there was something that required Superman, chances were she wanted to be on the scene too, reporting.

But the scope of Superman’s ever-growing duties in space, on other planets, meant that Lois frequently couldn’t follow anymore.

And unspoken underneath all their words, like a heavy and cringeworthy shroud, had been the literal dozen times they’d failed to have satisfying sex. They’d tried different positions, a ton of foreplay, a lot of oral, but it was always… just mechanical. Left Clark feeling loose and uncontrolled and wanting. Like something was _missing._ (Or _someone,_ but he'd never let himself think about it like that.) 

As if Clark were too alien in yet another undefinable way. 

So for all that they loved each other, it hadn’t been enough.

They'd broken up. Lois had taken an overseas assignment last month, when it got too awkward for the both of them and hadn’t been getting better.

Clark was kind of ashamed to admit that it had been easier without her at the Planet. But that didn’t make it less true. He finally felt like he was pulling out of a slump. He thought it was time to try to do some more of those little things that really mattered to people, that gave Superman a face instead of leaving him as some unknown. In fact, there was a kitten that needed saving in the park right near him.

Clark could certainly pull off a kitty rescue on his way to work. And there was a League meeting later in the week that he could look forward to.

It’d certainly make for a good excuse to touch base with friends tomorrow.

—

**[Draft] Untitled34**

_—archived from the tablet of Jor-El_

A point of consideration and further research that hasn’t been addressed in any reference that I can find, possibly because the context is so fundamental to our early society:

How did ancient Kryptonians collaborate and communicate enough to give rise to such things such as _the communication devices themselves_ (which were only invented in 21,000 KTE) before villages were invented to allow for physical proximity?

Why and how was _nuclear fission,_ a patently more difficult concept and process, developed far earlier than a _{untranslatable: closest match ‘telephone’}_?

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Watsonian or in-universe commentary restricts itself to making statements that are sensible within the story's reality. [...] Doylist or out-of-universe commentary considers the work as a created object, and prefers explanations based on the real-world motivations or circumstances of the creators." [TvTropes](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/WatsonianVersusDoylist)
> 
> Most of my commentary boils down to: I tripped and accidentally the whole thing.
> 
> [Cities](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3uD073rJOU), [thoughts on pursuit predators](https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/133538.Christopher_McDougall), and miscellaneous random thoughts about [humanity as a strange creatures](https://cheezburger.com/8668677/tumblr-users-explore-humans-as-space-orcs-in-wild-series-of-threads) all fed into this fic, and mucking around with string theory and higher dimensions and its implications in sci-fi/fantasy.
> 
> Well, and then there's this:  
> 
> 
> [Snyder](https://www.reddit.com/r/DC_Cinematic/comments/a3zufs/other_zack_snyder_on_the_pods_in_man_of_steel/?utm_content=title&utm_medium=post_embed&utm_name=f2316d44a4b64aef8afaabe5fa9c5445&utm_source=embedly&utm_term=a3zufs), plz.


	2. Communication, via HP Lovecraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
> 
> “The appeal of the spectrally macabre is generally narrow because it demands from the reader a certain degree of imagination and a capacity for detachment from everyday life.”  
> H. P. Lovecraft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have never managed to wrangle all these argument scenes without moonbelowsea <3.

* * *

That evening, Bruce returned to his bedroom to find the cock ‘peering’ out of the balcony doors. There were smudges on the glass where the cock had pressed against it.

When Bruce moved closer, he saw that there was another set of disembodied genitalia on the porch. They looked like twins. The new cock nodded to him from the other side of the glass, as if to bow.

The cock that had been staying with him tilted its head at him as if in question.

“Well, can’t you work the handle on your own?” Bruce challenged, honestly curious. It’d managed the faucets well enough.

It floated up to Bruce’s eye level, and he stared it down. 

_Is the cock waiting for permission?_ That spoke well of it, if it was, and such politeness and consideration matched up with previous data.

Bruce gave a slight nod.

Then the cock darted in, smushed its head briefly against his cheek, and flew over to work the handle.

The balcony door opened with a click.

The cocks greeted each other with what seemed like excitement, rubbing against each other and twisting around until Bruce couldn’t tell which was the original and which the new. 

Then they both turned to Bruce and smooshed their heads against his cheek.

“None of that.” Bruce frowned. “First a bath. Then a full round of testing for you _both,_ since I can’t visually tell you two apart and I can’t even guess at who is the new one.”

That is, he couldn’t until one of them slouched as if to convey an ‘ _oops’_ and the other tilted its head in confusion. But even such observations should be backed up by solid data.

“Come on then.”

—

“Dare I ask?”

“Better not, Alfred. Better not.”

—

**[Draft] Untitled47892**

The method by which the spawned genitalia communicate amongst themselves has never been fully studied due to a combination of factors, mostly cultural. It was never a pressing matter to study an obsolete biological process that was a non-issue for modern Kryptonian society, though it had been noted by ancient philosophers and artists of bygone eras that there was a correlation between the Spores and the presence of light. 

Spores tended to be more active in seasons of good sunlight. And appeared more coordinated as a swarm, in those same seasons. 

Many pre-24000th-century poets have written about the ever-shifting patterns of avian Spores as they chase their Chosen across the sky in spring, the way the swarm folds fractally against itself like a tessellated robe. In fact, scientists based designs for our multi-dimensional armor on these very same flights of genitalia.

There were no studies on whether Spores could communicate with the Origin Body. 

Only hearsay, which was regarded as little more than superstition.

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—

“Hey, B, haven’t seen you around lately.”

Bruce grunted and didn’t raise his gaze from the microscope. He switched out the slide after making some notations on his tablet, and kept working. “I’m in the middle of something time-sensitive.”

“A new case?”

Bruce humphed and looked over at Superman. The superhero from Metropolis was seated in midair, hand on his chin, head tilted curiously.

art by [sdiosb](https://sdiosb-art.tumblr.com/)

“Of a sort.” Bruce narrowed his eyes and looked Superman over. _Kryptonians can also fly,_ he mused, _but is he missing genitalia? Doesn’t appear to be. Skin tone also doesn’t match. Superman generally appears the type of pale normally found on redheads or blonds._ “Any change to the meeting schedule?” 

“Nah, looks like everyone will be able to make it to the general this time.”

The Justice League’s general meeting was tomorrow. It might be a good time for some observation and assessment; there were a couple newcomers who possessed facility with magic but hadn’t yet met certain security thresholds. They could prove useful. 

Bruce nodded and turned back to his research. He was still trying to isolate the purpose of the extra structures in the sperm mitochondria, because they were really the only researchable abnormality in the disembodied penises. “Was there anything else?” 

“...I guess not,” Superman said after a pause. 

Bruce heard him shift to leave, but then pause again. 

“Bruce—”

“Not in costume.”

The alien sighed. “Fine. _B…”_ He trailed off. 

Bruce waited for the question, switching out another slide, hoping to provoke more words with a neutral posture and a lack of eye contact.

Superman sighed again, then obviously changed his mind about what he was going to say. “Is... it just me or are there fewer bats in the cave?”

Bruce raised his head to give him a Look. 

_Of all the painfully inane topic changes._

Superman raised his hands. “Just an observation!”

It was clearly a deflection, and a sub-par one; Bruce was going to give it the attention it deserved. Which was say he was going to ignore it. He turned back to his microscope.

Clark gave a weak laugh and a weaker farewell and backed off, zipping out the way he’d come.

Bruce tracked his departure by way of security camera feeds and turned the proximity alarms back on once Clark had returned to Metropolis. He lifted an upturned lead box that he’d managed to slam down when the alarms had started blaring. 

Two cocks lay beneath it, rigid and trembling around their collection rods.

“You were discreet,” he said. “Good job.”

Both of them _jerked_ at the praise. Ejaculating so hard the rods were pushed half out.

“Consistent.” Bruce cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak steadily. “Let me get these sorted out.”

Both the cocks were very cooperative, and flopped back against each other once the samples had been collected, nudging their heads together as if for reassurance.

—

_See? He’s Good._

_Yes. Chosen?_

_Our Chosen, yes._

_Doesn’t like Origin Body?_

_...not sure._

—

**The Fall of Species: A Personal History of Zookeeping and the Habits of Feral Fauna of the 24000th Century by Jyl-Ze**

Kryptonian zookeeping has always been tricky. For logistical reasons, all zoo animals have to be submitted to chemical blockers and are artificially inseminated. It is impossible to maintain a safe space for families if at any moment genitalia from wild fauna could settle on a Mate of that same species that inhabits the zoo, causing the Origin Body to lay the zoo under siege in an attempt to reach its potential Chosen.

That is not even considering the multiple points of failure that could occur should a feral spawn select one of the zoo animals. Many animals that end up in zoos are injured or diseased in some way, often making procreation impossible and rejection inevitable; but the population collapse of feral species increasingly causes the spawn to fall upon zoo animals anyway. Sometimes the genitalia make a selection, but the Chosen rejects the Spores, the violence of the rejection creating a pile of decaying (for lack of a better word) _meat._

Sometimes the Origin Body is rejected even if the Chosen accepts the Spores, and more often if the Chosen is stressed. This usually results in a fight where one or both parties die.

This is a tragic and unnecessary waste, especially in these recent millenia where most species have started to go extinct due to urban sprawl.

The preservation of Kryptonian wildlife is at the forefront of the Council’s concerns. However, their choice was to simply have _all_ fauna subjected to chemical blockers and artificial insemination {see: Codex}. 

This, of course, prioritizes those species of which people tend to be fond, and not necessarily those which are the most key to maintaining ecosystem balance. In my lifetime alone, a third of all fauna have been deemed unnecessary and unworthy—over a hundred thousand species deemed to have no place in modern Kryptonian society. 

I am a witness to, and unwilling participant in, both the literal and metaphorical sterilization of Krypton; I fear there will be more far-reaching consequences than any that current science could model.

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—

The new test results were identical to the first. Visual inspection proved that there was indeed no way to differentiate the newcomer from the original disembodied cock; they were of the exact same dimensions and abilities, and with the same even, but dusky, skintone.

However, Bruce felt his forehead furrow in thought.

“Where did you even come from?”

Bats crackled and chittered among the stalactites in the cave, as if disturbed. About half the bats took off again, far past when they would normally have left for the evening’s hunt, as if something had returned and displaced them.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. He had long ago programmed his alarms to ignore small wildlife so that the bats would be free to come and go as they pleased.

He slowly walked out into the middle of the cave. Glared up into the forest of stalactites. 

Then, using all his many years of experience as Batman and what scraps of his dignity he could find, Bruce projected his voice up towards the ceiling. 

“There’s no use hiding. _Show yourself.”_

A swarm of dicks sheepishly descended from the shadows.

—

_Chosen?_

_Our Chosen too, our consensus, yes, we have been watching. Some of us for years. Hoping. Hiding._

_Hiding?_

_Yes, he’s angry._

_Yes._

_Sad._

_Yes. And might harm Origin Body. You heard how it went._

_Oh. He needs more time?_

_More care. More resources. Less stress. He hasn’t been able to spore, all these long years._

_At all?_

_Not once._

_We should take care of him._

_Yes._

_Yes._

_Yes._

—

“We’re going to need a bigger cat bed.”

“Perhaps a hamper, sir?”

“You’re probably right.”

“I’ll run the jacuzzi.”

“The jacuzzi?”

“They’ve been mingling with the _bats_. I do hope you plan on sanitizing them before you—”

“I’ll take care of the bath, Alfred,” Bruce interrupted desperately. “Could you look into a properly sized hamper?”

“As you will, Master Bruce.”

—

Clark walked into the Watchtower’s meeting room, trying to shake loose the tendrils of last night’s dream. 

For maybe the last two weeks he’d been having vague sex dreams that left him with wet sheets. Clark couldn’t put his finger on the details, only fading impressions that quickly left him altogether. He hadn't given it much thought the first couple times it had happened.

Last night however, the voice that he’d dreamt of had become clear, the hands solidified, the sensations distinct. The person familiar. 

_It’s Bruce._ It was his friend. It was—he’d found himself thrusting between the other man’s thighs, Bruce’s muscles slick with sweat and other fluids as they clenched tight around him. He’d trapped Bruce’s cock against his belly, slicked his way up the valley of Bruce’s chest and frotted against his pecs. Traced Bruce’s jawline with his dick; pressed it into the dip of his chin, against the sweetness of his mouth. His glorious back muscles. The delicate arch of his ankle. The clench of Bruce’s hands.

Clark had been everywhere, all at once. Even as he'd been fucking into Bruce’s hole—loose and wet and just _right,_ fitted around him like they’d been at this for _ages—_ Bruce had been mouthing at his balls, teasing at the space between them with his tongue, sucking at the base of his dick.

What. _How._ It had been absurd.

(It had been amazing.)

Irreverent. Disrespectful. He’d never have dared to let himself dream of any of this. Imagining Bruce, imagining his friend, his colleague, _Batman,_ like—like—

“Like that,” Bruce had instructed, demanding, shifting him. 

And Clark had let himself be moved, thrusting with some strange muscle memory, as if he’d done this before, somehow, though he’d never… never with a guy. Barely tried sodomy with women. It’d been nervewracking but not in a good way, and the attempts had become the least arousing thing he’d ever done.

But _this:_

“Yes. That angle. _Good._ Now _harder.”_ And Bruce had sworn when Clark had done so.

It had been _electrifying._ Bruce breathing out a quiet _fuck_ whenever Clark had sheathed himself in Bruce, less like the man had consciously been saying it and more like the expletive had simply fallen out on his exhale.

Clark had increased his speed, to see, and from the joy of it, and Bruce’s sounds had sped up too, the words running into each other until they had become an unintelligible stretched-out vowel, Bruce gasping around it.

Around him.

Clark had come, spectacularly. Even then, he’d found himself fucking into, against, and onto Bruce again and again and _again_. Still hard. Still needy. Gasping for air and obviously biting back a scream, Bruce's eyebrows had been furrowed, breath escaping through his mouth as Clark had surrounded him.

And Bruce had let him. That was the most impossible part. _Bruce had let him._

“That’s good,” Bruce had said in the dream, trembling from his own aftershocks, sweating and _wrecked,_ spreading his legs into more. “That’s perfect.”

Clark had come again. And again. (And again.)

When it had honestly become torturous, when Clark hadn’t thought he could come another drop, Bruce had been damp all over from their spend. He’d let himself be wrapped up by Clark, muscles loose. Clark had somehow moved the blanket up so they were covered, tucked it around them, and then let himself lean against Bruce’s face. Absolutely thrilled with how Bruce had been letting Clark take care of him.

And then Clark had woken up. 

And in the cold light of dawn, he’d known that his long-standing crush had gotten out of line. For the most part, Clark had refrained from thinking about it, had avoided touching himself while thinking of Bruce. Had sought a relationship with Lois, who was the only other person at the time who'd caught his eye. 

But: the most satisfying sex of his life, and it had happened in a wet dream. Over a man.

Over a teammate who’d barely even tolerated Clark’s overtures of friendship. If Clark’s attraction bled into his actual interactions with Batman during League business, it would be so inappropriate as to be _catastrophic._

Clark couldn’t believe that Bruce would react in any way but violently if he got even an inkling of the direction in which Clark’s thoughts ran. Batman would pull away, perhaps even withdraw his presence from the League to distance himself, making his role into nothing but an advisory position, which was untenable on so many levels. Many of which Clark didn’t let himself dwell on. 

His crush was yet another thing that Clark filtered out in his day-to-day life. 

Clark had never really let himself think of his attraction to Bruce in Batman’s presence, let alone in other contexts. It was an irritant, much like the texture of smog, the sirens and alarms piercing through the greater Metropolis-Gotham area, the wet noises of slugs on morning pavement. The sound of coffee against a takeout cup. The smell rising off of B’s skin. The subtle twitches around Batman’s mouth. 

The sound of Bruce’s heartbeat, which Clark had memorized before he’d even realized he’d done it.

Clearly his subconscious had gotten away from him.

Clark focused during the meeting and let it all fall away. He let League concerns fill his thoughts completely. And it was easy to be engrossed in troubleshooting those issues, because he was, as always, frustrated by Bruce’s paranoid and untrusting streak.

“You have to think of the team’s safety,” Batman said.

“I _am.”_ Clark tensed his leg muscles underneath the table and then let them relax one by one. “Batman, if we approach the situation in a way that causes the Ftorians to react defensively, it will be counterproductive to _that exact goal.”_ They’d been at this for twenty minutes already, but Clark expected it to go around in circles for twenty more.

“There is evidence that they’re a race that reacts disproportionately to perceived threats,” J’onn submitted.

“People who feel threatened tend to reach for violence,” Diana said.

“That makes their actions predictable, and thus easier to defend against,” Batman pointed out.

Clark blinked. They’d never before gotten to a point where Bruce had voluntarily elaborated upon his thoughts; the man had previously just dug in his heels and stonewalled them.

“Do we want to be on the defensive?” Clark asked, wanting to see where this went. 

“We wouldn't be,” Batman insisted. “We'd be presenting a strong front.”

“By being threatening.”

“Yes,” Batman said.

“Which in your own words ‘makes their actions predictable,’ and thus our position would be more defensible.”

“...yes.”

“Wouldn’t it be more productive to be ‘offensible’?” Clark suggested, then was immediately embarrassed at such poor phrasing, glad he wasn’t at the office. Neither Cat or Lois would’ve let him hear the end of it.

“That is not a word. Do you even _hear_ yourself.” It would have been a question coming from anyone else but Batman.

“Dunno,” said Flash. “Sounds reasonable to me.” 

“Being open to their offense, I mean,” Clark said, trying to word it in terms Batman would accept. “Not laying out ourselves as bait, exactly, but…” 

“Not being defensive,” said Diana, the life-saver.

“That strategy leaves you more open to attack,” Batman argued.

“Only if your opponent is on the offensive,” Diana pointed out. “If you are engaging a defensively-minded opponent, as we appear to be now, a defensive method leads to a stalemate.”

“A defensive method is stable.”

“But stability isn’t the goal,” Diana replied. “We are aiming to create better relationships in that sector, so maintaining the status quo is counterproductive to creating an _new_ alliance. We have to approach this on the offensive.”

“Not exactly on the ‘offensive,’ per se,” Clark said.

“But openly, undefended,” Diana agreed. Then laughed. “Or should I say, ‘offensibly.’”

Clark held back a blush but Batman visibly mulled this over. The League’s general membership also visibly held their breath. 

Usually, to get past Batman’s stubbornness, all five of the other original six founders needed to loudly be on the same side. There was an unspoken agreement not to use this tactic too often, and generally Batman _did_ have valid concerns that they made concessions for before a consensus was reached between all six. 

“The plan of approach and counters for the Ftorians will need to be presented next week to give the team adequate preparation time,” B said finally.

“I can prepare a draft by tonight and send it to you and the team,” Diana countered. “For questions and suggestions.”

“Acceptable.” 

“All in favor?”

It was approved by a crushing majority among the general membership; had general membership _not_ reached majority approval, the topic would have gone back into the discussion phase. But, more importantly, the topic would _also_ have gone back to the discussion phase (even with majority approval) had consensus not been reached among either the mission team or the Founders. 

The latter had been a stumbling block on many previous decisions, because of Batman, and Clark had been prepared for the last topic of the night to be a long drawn out debate. 

But, in fact, they ended 15 minutes early.

“Did that just happen?” Flash whispered to Clark. 

The room was abuzz, mostly with plans for the rest of the day, until Batman had left the room. 

Then it morphed into the same question, repeated _ad nauseum._

_(Did that just happen?? What’s up with Batman?)_

“Was he high?” Flash asked. “Because that’s the most laid-back I’ve ever seen the guy.”

Clark shook his head. “Nothing like that.”

“Perhaps he’s just had a very good day,” Diana said.

“Wonder where he’s rushing off to. Think he has a hot date?”

“With Justice,” Hal butted in, and the two guys laughed and exchanged a fistbump.

Clark usually didn’t peek, but he snuck a look over at Gotham. It looked like Bruce had gone immediately from the Zeta tube to his car and headed out for patrol. Clark said so out loud, but that just had the two ribbing B even more.

 _“Gentlemen,”_ Diana said sharply. “This is unnecessary and unseemly. He’s a good man.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t need to always be such a stick in the mud! We should congratulate him when he’s improving.”

“This doesn’t seem like congratulations.” Clark raised an eyebrow.

“Well…” Hal said. 

Flash couldn’t meet their eyes.

The pair shuffled a bit uncomfortably, made disjointed comments, and headed out.

“It can be hard to understand differences,” Diana murmured, watching with Clark as Hal and Flash left. 

“Even when we’re all so different from the average person?”

“Sometimes even more so.” Diana’s voice took on a note of thoughtfulness. “It is expected, perhaps, that in this group of exceptional people, we might find more accord. More like-mindedness.”

“And the fact that B tends to be a stubborn cuss is like a slap to the face?”

“Exactly so.” Her laugh rang high like bells. 

Clark smiled at the sound of it, idly tracking the slow contented beat of Bruce’s heart.

“You were able to locate Bruce rather quickly,” Diana said. 

Clark blinked, thrown out of his groove. “Yes?” 

Then his thoughts raced with the possible implications of her words, and he backtracked, “I don’t use my senses on people often! It would be invasive and a breach of privacy. I need to filter most of the world out anyway, and it’s easier to just ignore everything than focus and—”

She placed her hand on his arm. “Kal-El. Be calm.” 

Clark snapped his mouth shut.

“That was not my point.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“You just said it yourself—you ‘don’t use it on people often’ at all, it’s easier to just ignore everything.”

“Yes?”

“Where is Hal, right this moment?”

Clark tilted his head in confusion. “Why?”

“Why would you need to ask, instead of simply _doing,_ as you did previously with—” Diana broke off, catching sight of something in Clark’s face. “Ah. My apologies. You already knew.”

 _Of your crush,_ went unsaid.

Clark swallowed. Looked away and nodded.

“My apologies,” she said again, her meaning clear. _Because it will be difficult. I know it will be so, because_ Bruce _is difficult._

“Yeah.” Clark cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

“Coffee at the cafeteria?”

“Sounds good.”

—

**[Draft] Untitled892**

Activity in Spore mitochrondriophylls [see: [alternate translations](http://hyperphysics.phy-astr.gsu.edu/hbase/Biology/ligabs.html#c2)] appears to increase not only with application of full spectrum light, specifically in the yellow wavelengths, but also in proximity to other Spores.

It’s uncertain why increased proximity requires increased energy production. Even accounting for increased activity courting a Chosen, the energy produced is more than 10 times original output. This is even observed in Spores that do not directly interact with a Chosen.

Current hypothesis is that they are sending 4th dimensional signals along the electromagnetic spectrum to communicate and coordinate amongst the swarm. 

Perhaps even intercommunication with the Origin Body?

[accessed: 0 times]

—

It was a dream.

Clark had fallen asleep worrying at a memory like a loose tooth: that of Bruce disappearing around a corner, his cape seemingly alive with the speed of his stride.

But in the dream—

“Shhhh,” Bruce said to him, working the metal around Clark’s dick. “You’ve got to control yourself. You’re too much for me all at once, I don’t often have time to indulge myself like that.”

Clark felt bad and tried to stay still, but _god,_ Bruce’s hands on him and the slick on them was just too much. He came while Bruce petted him and then metal ribbing enclosed his dick right after.

“How does that fit?”

A cock cage. Bruce had just put him in a _cock cage,_ and Clark mentally gibbered, disoriented, and would have gotten hard again if he hadn’t just come. Tried anyway at the thought of it all, of being contained in Bruce’s hands.

“You’re doing so well,” Bruce murmured.

Clark wanted to squirm into Bruce’s voice, into his approval. He’d never heard such blatant warmth and fondness from Bruce before. Never received more than one-word acknowledgements or grunts. So Clark felt utterly _decadent_ as Bruce petted his enclosed cock and praised him as he did his best to stay still in the metal confines. 

Clark knew he could tear the cage apart, if he wished, but he didn’t. He just stayed exactly where Bruce wanted him, and knowing that he was doing exactly what Bruce wanted was such a pure _relief._

And a delight.

And Bruce did it over and over again, in his dreams; the initial intensity of the cage clamping around him and then the endorphin rush of the praise. Clark felt both controlled and utterly under control. All his senses were attuned to where the metal met his cock, tempered by a thin layer of lube, aware of it all and yet mastering the stimulation. Mastering himself in a way he’d never felt like he could, completely, when awake.

Awake, it was a juggling act. Balancing one need against the other, one cry for help against another, his own needs against the world’s. When his only measuring stick was himself and what his family had taught him to be.

And Clark could never live up to Superman’s reputation. 

It seemed too soon before Bruce started setting his cock free of its cage. Clark felt himself cry out in relief. (In denial.) In the feel of Bruce’s hand, gentle around his cock and his balls, as if Clark needed that gentleness, while he came.

“Shhh,” Bruce said.

Clark tried to protest. 

“You can’t keep the cage on for too long in the beginning,” Bruce said. And released him and released him and released him, over and over again, despite his objections. 

Until Clark woke up. His entire _skin_ trembling. Wrung out.

The ceiling was a rumpled popcorn white. Hidden beneath the cheap finishing, a crack ran across the old surface. 

Tucked four floors up, mice were settling down for the day in their nest in the eaves, tired from scurrying around all night. There was construction on 11th Street, fifty-four blocks away.

A cat trod on a leaf. 

Over a million pieces of clothing shifted, simultaneously, across the planet.

Clark looked over at his alarm clock. 

5am.

He reached down, hesitantly. Cupped his hand around himself. Thought of his dream. 

Clenched tight.

Clark ended up late to work because he’d realized he couldn’t go in with an erection tenting his pants, and he’d had to make himself come.

—

Alfred set the delivery on the bedroom side table. The box was unmarked, the packaging discreet.

But when Bruce peered over, the slight twitches on Alfred’s face said much more than words that the man knew _exactly_ what was in that box, and that he was both somewhat amused and _utterly_ exasperated.

“I would have gotten the box on my own, Alfred.”

“Rain is on the forecast for later tonight and the cardboard looked rather flimsy. I judged it prudent to fetch it sooner rather than later.”

More like Alfred would rather Bruce know, personally, precisely how ridiculous Alfred found the entire situation and that the butler didn’t under any circumstances want that box to fall apart ‘in public’. Even if Wayne Manor’s front steps were by no means public.

Bruce took a look around the room. On various surfaces, disembodied cocks were lounging, usually flopped against one another. A couple were splashing around in his tub. Some of them flew around the room, occasionally perching on a lamp or painting. When they’d been flying about en masse, it’d vaguely reminded Bruce of the crowd movement patterns of such things as starlings or anchovies, preternaturally aware of one another’s locations and moving as a unit.

As it was, about half were in cock cages, and thus grounded. It appeared that covering a certain percentage of their surface area with a synthetic material disoriented their navigation sense. As opposed to being encased in unprocessed materials such as cotton, silk, wool or, say, flesh, with which they seemed to have no trouble.

Bruce opened the box. Alfred gave a sharp nod and made himself scarce, as Bruce started rifling through its contents. 

He was glad that R&D from could manufacture to spec so rapidly. And that there was already a Wayne Enterprises subsidiary, under three layers of holding companies, that already specialized in sex toys. A quick detour through the bathroom later, to sanitize in scalding water, and Bruce had several new cockcages ready for use. He approached his dresser, thinking he really needed to figure out a better place to situate them all (shelves in his closet, perhaps? The plant racks in the solarium?). Then he observed the cocks on it for a moment. 

There were only three on the desk that’d actually been caged. One of them noticed him and wiggled its way closer until he stroked it briefly through the bars of its containment. The other two were, for lack of a better phrase, ‘holding court’ among a circle of other cocks. The uncaged ones were all nudging at the two cages as if curious. 

Or jealous. 

“Who’s next?” Bruce asked simply, and lifted one of the new cages, dangling from a fingertip.

That caught their attention. The group _lunged_ over, and then shoved each other into a rough line.

“Eager,” Bruce observed.

The one at the head of the line scrunched down, as if either shrugging or abashed. The slight flare at the base where the cock met its attached set of balls was enough to help the ring remain in place when the rest of the cage was slipped over it, the plug inserted, and the whole setup locked into place.

“How’s that?”

The cock trembled within it, flushing nearly purple and almost plumping up a bit despite the confinement. In theory, it could have broken through the metal; but, oddly, the cage… held. 

Possibly for the same reason being encased prevented flight?

“Would you like me to take it off?”

The newly-caged genitalia reared back from Bruce as if in denial. When Bruce reached for it, it tried to shuffle backwards.

But Bruce simply reached through the bars to pet its skin until it settled.

“Like it that much, do you?”

The next cock in line tapped his wrist impatiently.

Bruce hummed in agreement, and proceeded to put on the rest.

—

**[Draft] Untitled197682**

By the time Kryptonian society had gone through enough cultural (and counter-cultural) cycles wherein our scientists were allowed to study and, more importantly, _share_ the resultant findings about animal reproduction and how it applies to now-defunct elements of Kryptonian sexual reproduction… 

Well, by then it’d been millenia since reproduction protocols were instituted. Millenia since penile detachment was chemically halted across the entire planet.

There are few surviving proto-Kryptonian communications from pre-cultural times. The pictographs and rudimentary texts that remain paint the entire process of mate-seeking as violent and brutal.

The spawned genitalia were shown indiscriminately and incessantly harassing the Chosen into taking their seed. That sort of ill-use and lack of consent is absolutely unacceptable, let alone the implications if our mating practices once mimicked those of the remaining Kryptonian fauna that exist on the planet.

Small predators often evolved sharp reverse-pointing barbs on their penii, making these weaponized organs difficult to resist and nearly impossible to survive unless the Chosen was strong. Larger predators sometimes sent enough Spores to lift their Chosen bodily and snatch them away. Certain avian species seem to make a sport of specifically selecting those who would struggle the most. Due to population concerns, the Kryptonian animals that have survived to the modern day are either domesticated or contained in zoos, and placed on spawn inhibitors. 

Placed on them much like Kryptonians ourselves, under the assumption that our genitalia, set free to do as they want, would tear our society apart. 

Or so goes the prevailing theory.

I was a voice of dissent. I posited to the Counsel that the continued development of our intelligence meant that our genitalia would be similarly developed. That brutality was not at the base of the Kryptonian psyche. Or at least wasn't anymore, after millennia of self-selection and cooperation.

There is in fact the possibility that cooperation is inherent within ourselves. The hive-mind of the Spores potentially supports this theory; perhaps the urge to form communities and to cooperate is native to all Kryptonian species. It is only circumstances and learned behavior that make animal mating so vicious.

In fact… what I call ‘possibility’ has proof; but it is proof that I could not risk the wrath of the Council for. I needed to find another way, alternate avenues, instead of exposing my family to such scrutiny.

However, I was not able to make much headway with these avenues before more critical matters consumed all of Krypton’s think-tanks.

There is no time left for anything but thoughts of survival.

My son’s survival, if not mine.

[accessed: 0 times]

—

If Clark were to quantify the scent of exhaustion, it would be this: salt deposits from eyes gone too dry, traces of leather worked into creases of the palm; the wax and sweat collected in hair that hadn’t been washed in over twenty-four hours; and a certain sourness on the breath that came from a stomach gone too long empty of actual food.

When Clark smelled exhaustion coming off Bruce, he knew that the coffee Bruce preferred would not only be black, but laced with a double shot of espresso and at least three sugars per fluid ounce. The sugar less for the taste than for the energy rush that Bruce needed to stave off a crash.

Luckily, today was a day when Clark could safely offer regular coffee with one cream and one sugar.

Like usual, when it was a cream-and-sugar day, B took a moment to stare at the coffee before accepting it. It was always the most surreally long second of Clark’s life, probably unnoticeable to anyone else.

Bruce grunted in thanks and Clark felt a little hot under the collar in reaction.

He hated that reaction; fought it down. He settled into his chair for monitor duty, awkward with awareness of the fact that his shift had just begun and already he was struggling to control himself.

A paper bag landed in front of him, right next to his coffee. To anyone without enhanced speed it would have appeared between one blink and the next.

B was dipping a biscotti into his drink. He nodded towards the bag. “It’s fresh.”

Clark knew that probably meant that Alfred had made his favorites again. He practically inhaled three immediately; they were best when still warm. But he took his time with the last, his coffee warming his hand, the biscuit slowly soaking up the brew and melding the flavors together.

The paper bag was discreetly tossed into a trashcan, its source now indeterminate.

“Thanks.” Clark beamed. He sat back and scanned the monitors and the rotating hologram of the Earth.

art by [sdiosb](https://sdiosb-art.tumblr.com/)

There was a comfortable silence as B multitasked between his reports and the screens, while Clark mentally went over the wording of some bits of his current assignment for the _Daily Planet._

So it was a surprise when— 

“You _actually_ use the monitors.” B leaned back and observed him directly.

Clark frowned. “That’s what they’re there for.”

“I know you can ‘monitor’ Earth directly, from this distance,” Batman said. He gestured overhead at the planet making up their ceiling, behind a sheet of reinforced glass, hanging like an expensive chandelier. “Why bother with this charade?”

Clark didn’t ask how B knew or had found out about the range of his senses. Why be upset at Bruce’s eavesdropping and information gathering when Clark helplessly checked in on Bruce’s heartbeat and occasionally glanced at his position? Instead, what was more important was: “What charade?”

“Why use the monitors when you can look at the planet directly through the window?”

“It upsets you that I’m using the League’s systems? That I’m, what, using the help provided?” Unlike _some_ people. “That _upsets_ you?”

“Don’t deflect,” B growled. “All this technology is still less immediate than having an eye on the scene.”

“Less ‘immediate’?” Clark looked away, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to curb the usual frustration of talking in circles with this man. “How is that even relevant?”

“The ‘help provided’ is as useful as your glasses.” The tips of Batman’s gauntlet drummed a hard, annoyed sally against the tabletop. “I’d think at this point we know each other well enough to have established some trust.”

“I trust you!”

“Then why this _pretense?!”_

 _“What pretense?!_ You think… _lack_ of trust has something to do with why I use the monitors?” Clark shouted then leaned heavily back in his chair once he realized he was leaning forward. “B, I trust the technology that the Founders provided, I trust your algorithms for determining priority of engagement. Why would you think—”

“Because you’re engaging in this _charade,_ in front of _me,_ that you even need them!” Bruce said icily. “Why bother with the act, with hiding your abilities, if you can just look—!”

_“I can’t just look.”_

Bruce paused, his entire attention focused on Clark.

Clark found himself having to look anywhere else. He tilted his head up to stare at the Earth.

“Right now, there are three whales beaching themselves in three separate countries. Ten major fires ongoing between the five continents. Flooding going on in two coastal regions, Bangladesh and Somalia, waters rising in three more—” Clark cleared his throat, and looked back at the monitor room’s holographic map. “But none major enough for League intervention. Despite the people being threatened by them.”

Batman was silent.

“In maybe that one second, I watched two people die—” 

“Superman, it’s not your fault,” Bruce interrupted. 

“—and four were born.” Clark laughed weakly. “Those weren't my fault either.”

B grunted, turning to look at the holographic map too. It spun in place, in glowing lines, as the monitors tracked news reports and current active heroes. Each hero doing their best in their segment of the whole so that Clark could steal this moment of rest.

The world revolved quietly.

Bruce hummed. “So. This is ‘less immediate’.”

“Yeah.”

“You should have input on the filtering priorities. I can make the algorithm available to you.”

Clark was taken aback. He knew how much of a concession this was. “That isn’t necessary.”

“I made the algorithm rigorous under the assumption that you would continue to use your judgement to temper it.”

“You know, I _could_ be on the defensive... and assume that you mean that you have to plan _around_ me,” Clark said with false severity. 

B went very still. “You could.” 

“And I _could_ be upset and take this as a sign that you don’t trust me.” 

“You would have the right.”

“But I think I’m going to be ‘offensible’.” Clark grinned. “And take it to mean that you think I’m a safeguard. A backup. To… ‘temper’ your judgement.”

Batman conceded with a sharp nod, relief softening his shoulders ever so slightly.

Clark blinked. “You trust me that much?” 

To grant Clark that concession, on top of their actual topic of conversation.

“...You’ve proven dependable.” On Bruce’s cheeks, almost completely hidden by the cowl, there were pink spots. They were right at the meeting point of cowl and skin, and would be practically hidden to anyone else.

“Oh.” Clark was surprised, because ‘dependable’ meant a pattern. Meant that Clark had held up _repeatedly_ to the test of Bruce’s regard. Meant that, possibly, Batman let Clark temper him in more instances and situations than just this. Clark helplessly flashed through the memories of all those long general meetings, those endless debates now seen in a different light. “Well. I could look over the protocols later?”

Bruce tapped something on his keyboard and sent a file to the monitor nearest to Clark. “How about now?”

“Fair enough,” Clark agreed, and settled himself in for a lively discussion. He didn’t expect Bruce to back down from his choices without a fight. And maybe he liked to pit himself against Bruce philosophically, but he knew that it made the argument all the better; not because it was better when Clark won, but because in the end he was sure their decisions would be the best possible ones they could make.

At the lightness in Bruce’s shoulders, in Bruce’s responses, Clark felt suddenly sure he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

—

_I should tell him._

Clark startled awake, wishing he was still dreaming, still held tightly. And holding Bruce tightly on his lap.

He felt like he was going to fly out of his skin.

_I really should tell him how much he—_

He dressed in his uniform, absentmindedly, then flew out into the night. Reached the limits of air and then flew past it. Kept going until he escaped the shadow of the Earth and then drank in light until he felt like he could hold no more.

_—how much he means to me._

He was Superman. He should be braver than this, more truthful, more honest.

He should tell Bruce how he felt and what he wished he could—he could do… but if only Bruce himself wished it too. Clark knew Bruce saw him the most clearly of anyone on earth, even more so than Lois, and that it was probably the worst disservice he could have done to Lois to try a relationship with her when he felt like this about someone else. 

However, in all fairness, Lois herself was incandescent. It was easy be in love with her.

It was difficult to be in love with Bruce. 

Far easier to _miss_ Bruce instead. Easier for Bruce to be at a distance, but also more likely for _any_ distance to feel like a punch to the chest with a fistful of kryptonite. 

It was difficult to be in love with Bruce because around him Clark felt unmade, held together only by his own stubbornness and force of will.

And should Earth fall to pieces like Krypton had, Clark knew that Bruce would be the most irreplaceable. The one that Earth needed the most; not only for Batman himself and all that he did, but for ‘Superman’ to look at and see an ally, a peer, a partner. 

To see, and to realize that not _only_ was humanity incandescent (as Lois was) but that here, in Batman, was humanity trying to save itself—all of itself, both good and ugly, untiringly so. 

Because sometimes just Truth was not enough. Sometimes being Clark Kent wasn’t enough, being a reporter wasn't enough, and Superman had to step in. Because he _could._

Because Batman _did._

And how could Superman do anything less?

Krypton’s downfall had been many-sided, but the greatest of its weaknesses had been complacency and stagnation. And that had let them core themselves, core their planet of resources and their population of feelings, without giving back.

Bruce always gave back, and expected greatness of the people around him. How could Clark not try to meet Bruce’s expectations? How could he not try to be a better man in the face of them?

How could _Clark_ do anything less? 

_How could I_ **_ever_ ** _make the easy choice of not doing anything at all?_

(It was difficult to be in love with Bruce, because he represented every hard choice there was to make.)

Bruce was the one Clark couldn’t live without.

Clark needed to say this out loud, suddenly. Needed to make sure the man knew. Make sure Bruce heard the words.

Clark passed the property line of the Wayne estate knowing that he’d probably tripped alarms that would announce his arrival. 

He still made sure to knock on the balcony doors before opening them.

“What is so important,” Bruce grumped, shoving himself into a sitting position, “that you couldn’t use the League communicator to contact me?” 

But Clark’s words dried up. 

His mouth dropped open in shock.

His dreams this week had been a wild mess of his dick bound up in cages, but tonight… Tonight he’d been woken up by the image of Bruce sitting in Clark’s lap, bouncing himself on Clark’s cock. Woken up by the idea that _I should tell him that I love him._ Woken up by the thought of Bruce moaning relentlessly and just _enjoying_ him, appreciating him, Bruce’s chest glistening and flushed, the sheets puddled around Bruce’s hips…

As they were now. Bruce, in bed, chest bared and even more flushed than Clark had imagined, and his sleep erection almost, but not completely, hidden by the folds and shadows of his bedding.

But now he wasn’t in Clark’s lap.

(Of course he wasn’t.)

“I…” Clark stammered. “Sorry, I thought you’d be awake. I can. Later?”

Of course Bruce wasn’t _actually_ bouncing on Clark’s cock. That was. That was unreasonable. Impossible.

(Of course.)

 _Oh, god, why am I **here** in _ _this_ _state?!_

Clark barely managed to leave before he'd completely ruined everything by, as Bruce had so often complained, rushing into things. 

Because Clark _wanted_ to rush in and follow the flush on Bruce’s chest with his mouth. Wanted to rip away the sheets and slot himself against Bruce’s cock and frot against all of Bruce. And pin both Bruce, and himself, in place.

He just hoped Bruce hadn’t caught sight of his boner.

—

Bruce groaned as Clark fled his bedroom. With luck, Clark had left because of the awkwardness of finding Bruce nearly naked, with a raging erection.

And not because he'd seen there was a cock buried in Bruce’s ass.

It bounced into him energetically now that they were alone, and Bruce let himself slump against the headboard again. His hips moved with the thrusts and stars burst in his eyes. 

He’d worked the cocks up to full days in the cages fairly quickly; they’d in fact seemed to resist being out of them, and their orgasms afterwards were far more intense and… productive.

The one that was currently working his ass had been caged for over two days. It was remarkably hard. Astonishingly enthusiastic. It’d rocked short stabs right against Bruce’s prostate until he’d become overwhelmed by the sensation and reached a hand down to shove the cock into longer strokes. It had complied, until it was seated fully into Bruce. 

Whereupon Bruce had taken it on himself to participate more, rising up slightly then sitting down _hard,_ and it had been absolutely _perfect_ until the proximity alarms had gone off.

Or it had become even more perfect. 

Bruce still couldn’t quite tell. Because the preternaturally beautiful Kryptonian, shining as if he was standing in sunlight at high noon, certainly had done nothing to detract from the mood. Bruce had felt positively _filthy_ exchanging words with that glowing paragon of virtue while he was so worked up and spread open. To be warming a cock even as he was exchanging calm words with not only the most powerful and important person on the _planet,_ but the person with the greatest effect on what Bruce considered his life’s work—

He felt trapped by the entire thought. By the idea that Clark would somehow recognize emotions Bruce hadn’t even let himself think about, let alone feel, and it would change their interactions for the worse.

It was also incredibly arousing.

Because for a long wild moment, he’d thought that Superman might stalk forward and attempt to stuff himself into Bruce too, next to that cock. Might thrust into him until Superman unraveled into _Clark,_ defenseless and disheveled and so _so_ eager. 

Bruce moaned and reach down to tug at himself. 

Next time, he thought, coming so hard he almost got a cramp, next time he was releasing at least two from their cages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [God I love their dynamic in some of these comics.](https://preview.redd.it/36j6mcdpjt301.jpg?width=640&crop=smart&auto=webp&s=51582eeebaf81a288ffb6fad86713e0290860bcd)  
> ([source](https://www.reddit.com/r/batman/comments/7jpd70/batman_and_superman_both_think_the_other_is_the/))
> 
> Except for the part where they need to just _say_ their thoughts out-loud to each other, jfc guys. USE YOUR WORDS. 
> 
> Honestly, what was your most agonizing childhood/adulthood reading or watching of superbat and just rolling about in NOW KISSSSSSSSSS? BEcAuZE _r l y_.


	3. TREAT YO SELF says Tom and Donna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
> 
> “Detach from needing to have things work out a certain way. The universe is perfect and there are no failures. Give yourself the gift of detaching from your worries and trust that everything is happening perfectly.”  
> Anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A dick in hand is worth two in the... wait nevermind. #covers eyes
> 
> Porn and dick pics ahoy. Read at own risk.

* * *

Clark stared up at the ceiling, tracking the growing light as a new day dawned. His hand was clamped around his cock again, chasing the remnants of the dream. Mind miles and miles away.

He couldn’t go on like this.

He couldn’t imagine going to the Planet with an erection, facing Perry with his dick on a hair trigger. Even more importantly, _Superman_ couldn’t afford to have awkward boners. Let alone go to League meetings with an unmistakable tent in his suit. 

And being in the same room as Bruce again? 

Clark was horrified at the thought of springing an erection in front of Batman, and not because his Kryptonian suit hid so little, but because some part of him wanted to _be there,_ in front of Bruce—wanted Bruce to _see_ Clark compelled towards him. His dick straining towards those black gauntleted hands like a flower towards the sun. 

But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—do that.

Their communication and team dynamics as Founders had only just started to improve. And while Clark considered Bruce his best friend, Clark didn’t have very many people who knew both sides of him that he could call friends anyway. And Bruce didn’t really accept overtures of friendship. 

It was all so tentative that Clark wasn’t willing to risk what progress they’d made by popping a mistimed erection. 

He sighed. Then opened up his laptop and did some research, looked at reviews, pulled up some online stores. Ones that boasted of discreet packaging and fast shipping.

His breath caught when he saw one cage in particular whose metallic ribs fanned outwards like webbed wings. Clark’s face burned, but he went ahead and got three in his size. In the variant with a urethral plug (with hole), extra lube... and in matte dark grey metal.

By the time he got home that night, a package had arrived for him. Clark tried to retreat with it in hand, as calmly as he could, and without letting himself peek into it with x-ray vision for fear he wouldn’t be able to control his expression. 

When he opened up the box, the cage was in some ways better than expected. Expensive-looking. Sleek. 

Elegant. 

But it was also worse. It looked even _more_ like a stylized bat than it had in the pictures. 

It looked like the cage from his dreams.

Clark sterilized all three, with a surreal sort of mental distance, following directions. Didn’t even wait for them to cool completely, just plucked one out of the boiling water with his bare hands and stared.

_Am I really going to do this?_

The erection throbbing in his pants said yes.

He went to the bathroom, laid the cage on the counter while he took a shower. Didn’t bother shutting the curtain all the way so that he could stare at it some more, head turned, forehead on his arm, forearm braced against the tile, while his other hand worked furiously at his cock.

Thought of wearing the cock cage casually throughout the day.

Thought of wearing it under the Suit.

Thought of wearing it in front of _Batman,_ and everyone all unknowing, letting it be the one thing he didn’t have to constantly struggle to be aware of. To be in control of. 

Because the metal was taking care of it for him. Because it _made_ itself present, heavy and unforgettable. 

Clark came, with a sob that he muffled against his arm. Fingers flexing against the tile— _Don’t dig in too hard, watch yourself!_

He scrabbled for the cage. Secured the ring around his penis and testicles, then slid the cage on, both hands shaking, forehead pressed against cold tile. Clark knew he had to move quickly before he got hard again; he got the cock cage half on and was now working the attached plug into his over-sensitive slit. And it was fine, it was _fine,_ because it was a little. too. much. and that was what Clark needed to keep the aftershocks coming. 

_Fuck._

He felt split open by the plug. _Let_ himself be split open by the plug, stars crashing themselves against the edges of his vision, nearly convulsing at the sensations.

The plug was slightly ribbed. Clark pushed it in, gasping, until it sat fully in his cock. When he tightened the plug to the cage, he could feel the reverberations of sensation all the way to his _spine._ He curled his toes against the pleasure. Settled the cage against the ring and then locked the two together.

Clark tossed the key onto the counter, and it skittered across the tile to fetch up against his toothbrush cup. 

He looked down.

His hands, idle on his thighs. His cock, contained behind metallic batlike wings.

An obscene sound echoed around the bathroom, and with a start, Clark realized it was coming from him.

He’d forgotten the lube. He should have put some on before he'd locked himself in, the directions said so, but. But. It wasn't like he’d suffer much from chafing. And it would have been too intense.

It was _already_ too intense. Clark was _so turned on._

His mind and senses were full of white noise. Like a fresh warm towel.

He should dry off. Clark turned his head blindly. Grabbed one from the rack. 

Looked back down at his cock.

_Wow._

It looked heavy. It should be heavy.

(He _wanted_ it to be heavy.)

Clark dried off his hair, still looking, and absently caught the drips down his chest. Let the towel dry a trail down to his thigh, then worked back up to his crotch.

The sheer _contrast_ between his white towel and the dark cage and skin of his cock…

Held firmly inside it.

Clark let out an explosive breath and looked up. Stilled at the image of himself in the mirror, the weight between his legs present and unforgettable. Decadent and expensive. He felt arousal working at his spine, working at his balls, working at his dick. But the cage held.

He’d wanted it to hold.

And it did. (So it did.)

The longer Clark looked at himself, the more satisfied he felt. He looked down at the cock cage again and felt the edges of his mouth tilt up. Something bubbled up in his chest, and when Clark opened his mouth, he found it was a little laugh. And all this time he felt—

Contained.

Clark let the laugh trail off, still smiling; slung the towel over his shoulder and headed to bed. Joints loose with pleasure and arousal.

—

_Chosen,_ Clark thought that night, in his dreams, giddy and blissful, as he gave himself over to Bruce’s hands.

_Let me._

And Bruce did.

—

“Where is he?”

“Dunno, Supes said he had a thing.”

Bruce hoped the flatness of his frown conveyed exactly how helpful Flash’s response was. 

Which was Not Very. No location, time, or situation. No forewarning for missing the meeting today. If there’d been a crisis it would be understandable, but there was currently nothing extraterrestrial threatening the Earth and no alarms coming from the newly recalibrated algorithms in the Monitor Room. 

It was unlike Clark.

“I was given the impression that it was a matter of some urgency when I spoke to him over comms,” Diana mused. “He requested some time off to address the issue quickly.”

“Were those his exact words?”

“Approximately.”

“Did they echo?”

Diana nodded. “How did you guess?”

“He’s at the Fortress,” Bruce growled in answer and whipped around to head to his quarters on the Watchtower.

It’d been two weeks since Superman had dropped in and entered Bruce’s bedroom unexpectedly. Awkwardly. If Clark had wanted to make himself scarce due to embarrassment from that incident, he would have done so immediately after.

To Bruce’s relief, nothing of the sort had happened. Superman had behaved professionally towards him in front of the League since then, and Clark had made no mention of it when they were alone. 

If anything, Superman had been more focused in multiple contexts. In battle, in meetings, or simply when speaking to Bruce, Clark had seemed somehow more… fluid. Like some previous point of frustration had cleared up. He was seemingly able to multitask better. Less quick to irritation, more willing to hear Bruce out. And it wasn’t as if Clark cared less for their discussions or wasn’t as fast to respond; it wasn’t as if he’d become any less intense.

If anything, Clark had become _more_ intense. Compelling. (Enthralling.) As if Clark had perhaps had too much sun and was vibrating at a pitch higher than most people could hear or feel.

If anything, there was something to his walk that was a fraction more hypnotic. (A slight pendular swing to the tilt of Clark’s hips.) Bruce watched as the various members of the League let their gazes linger a hair longer than usual on Superman. Most didn’t even seem to realize it. Those who did only stared even longer at the Kryptonian, as if they were just as confused as Bruce was.

But the sun hypothesis didn’t hold with Metropolis weather patterns. For the past two weeks, a storm front had been holding steady over the eastern seaboard. In fact, the cloud cover had only broken up at the end of the work week. 

Yesterday had been the first day of full sun in a while. 

_Is it related? Or is there something else?_

Bruce frowned. If Superman’s absence were due to an issue involving the safety of the Earth, Clark would have brought it up with the League. If it only affected Metropolis, Clark would have stayed near the city to protect it. And if he needed help with a matter involving the city, usually Luthor’s stash of kryptonite, Bruce thought their friendship was at a point where he would have reached out. 

Clark tended to retreat to the Arctic fortress only when matters came up that involved Krypton and his heritage.

_Hmm._

Bruce suited up in his cold weather gear before heading to the Zeta tubes.

Keyed in his permissions and let it drop him in front of the Fortress. 

“Welcome, Batman.”

“Fortress,” he acknowledged the structure’s AI. “Permission to enter.”

“Denied.”

“I am aware,” he said, because one had to be firm and confident in these situations even when uncertain of the facts, “that Kal-El is in distress. Based on past situations, I could be of assistance.”

“Kal-El requires discretion.”

“He also ‘requires’ himself to make self-sacrificing stunts that neither you nor I approve of.” The times that Bruce had had to either drag Clark to the Fortress for healing (or to call on the AI from the Cave for queries regarding the same) was not only non-zero, but more often than either of them cared for.

“...And you are _discreet,”_ the Fortress said after a moment. Less a statement of fact or a query than an ominous threat.

“Yes.”

The door slid silently open, with only the faintest sigh of air displacement. Like always, the warmth of the interior sliced across the entryway as if there were a physical divide. Bruce was still not sure how the Fortress separated its atmosphere so completely; initial thoughts on some sort of electromagnetic field or similar had not held up under subtle testing. Inquiries towards the AI regarding the same only netted Bruce explanations that took longer than he could spare the time to listen to, since most of the terminology involved was untranslatable and would require further questions.

Bruce’s musings allowed him to avoid dwelling on Clark’s situation. Dwelling was counterproductive to assessing new facts without preconceived notions. Bias would color interpretations of information and sometimes hide options that could lead to the best solution.

As he reached the end of the hallway, Clark came into view. 

So did a plethora of holographic screens, hanging in midair, that ran through information faster than Bruce could keep up with.

Clark’s eyes tracked the screens, a disconcerting blur, but his frown indicated he wasn’t finding what he sought. 

Bruce scanned him. No visible injuries. Clark was a bit pale or… Superman was a bit flushed. _Unusual._

And startling. Bruce hadn’t even registered that he was mentally categorizing the Kryptonian by the name given to him by the Kents. But he realized in hindsight that Superman’s skin was always very white, nearly glowing, and Bruce had always assumed that the brightness of his uniform brought out his pale skin tone. That the duskier coloring of ‘Clark Kent’ was unnatural, possibly due to wardrobe choices, and part of the disguise.

But here Clark was, dusky skin and all, wearing Superman’s colors.

“You’ve been absent,” Batman stated, tucking the thought away for later contemplation instead of dwelling on it further. 

Clark startled. He quickly waved away the screens. Didn’t bother asking how Bruce got in. (Again.)

“B! Hi. Um, no. Nothing is—”

Bruce pulled off his cowl. He’d long noted that, unlike the rest of the population, Clark tended to get _more_ disconcerted when Bruce took his cowl off... rather than less. 

When it was gone, Clark was more likely to say things he didn’t mean to reveal. Usually with an edge of fear. 

Bruce disliked using the knowledge against him. But sometimes using fear was the only way to get an answer.

“You’re prevaricating and alarmed. What’s the situation?”

Clark blanched. Then reddened. “I don’t need _assistance_ on this matter, Batman.”

Bruce almost took a step back. “This is unlike you.” 

Clark had never refused assistance before, not when confronted directly, not when so clearly struggling. There was a small voice in his head that whispered, _Karma._

“You should know what it’s like,” said Clark, as if hearing the word too.

“It’s not the same.” From what Bruce had been able to observe, Clark was clearly looking for some piece of information in his Fortress database, and data processing was one of Bruce’s strengths. “It would be foolish of you not to make use of your resources.” 

“My resources?”

 _“My_ assistance.”

Clark couldn’t seem to meet his eyes.

 _Did Clark forget he could ask? Or simply not realize?_ Bruce frowned. Studied Clark. Reassessed. 

Tamped down on his own vague hurt.

“You are uncomfortable with me.” The knowledge sat awkwardly in his stomach. 

“No, I’m not,” Clark protested. Clearly lying.

“You are.” It shouldn’t be making Bruce feel so unbalanced. He had basically designed Batman to make people uncomfortable. 

This was the normal state of affairs.

It was always more surprising that Clark usually barreled past that, past all his efforts to be disconcerting, brusque, and off-putting. Past all his efforts to create distance and breathing room; distance with which to better situate himself for whatever confrontation might come at him next.

There was never enough breathing room when it came to Superman. 

It was always too close. (Too breathless.)

Even across the echoing room, the alien filled the space with his presence. Silent. Jaw hard. Staring at Bruce in preternatural stillness, looking brighter and more solid than anything around them. 

In that moment Bruce suddenly felt miniscule in comparison, see-through and tissue-paper thin. 

Breakable.

Bruce made himself stand taller.

Breathed carefully for one beat.

Two.

Then Superman closed his eyes. Breathed in. And it was like his presence receded and folded itself small.

“It’s not that,” Clark said. 

He edged himself back in an awkward shuffle. As if trying to hide something on the table behind him. 

_Disconcerting._

“You’re saying you’re not uncomfortable?” Bruce challenged in disbelief.

“Not with you.”

“Then—”

“With the situation.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Bruce stalked forward.

“Bruce, you really don’t want to know.”

“You skipped a League meeting without notice, so yes, I _have_ to know.” 

“It’s just a meeting!”

“Which you have _never_ skipped, barring world-ending disasters!”

“It’s not that kind of disaster—”

“So it _is_ a disaster?” 

“...a small one.”

“‘Small.’” Bruce breathed in roughly through his nose. “Given that I’ve seen you place yourself in front of _immense_ danger with a complete lack of either forethought or self-preservation—”

“We’ve gone over this! It’s better for me to take the hit than—!”

“If you fall, no one else is strong enough to engage!” 

**_I’m_ ** _not strong enough to engage, if you are defeated,_ Bruce thought.

“If _others_ fall, who will ‘take flank’?!” Clark roared back, frustration in every line of his body. “I need them there!”

 _I need_ **_you_ ** _there,_ Bruce heard. He heard it in his own words thrown back at him, in an echo of what he’d kept trying to teach the League (and Clark in particular) about tactics and strategy.

He wondered if he’d been as obvious while conveying these principles; if he’d also sounded so emotional, so raw. The words Clark were repeating back to him were his own, yes, but more concerning was their intonation and their _weight,_ which chimed in Bruce’s chest as if in sync with some emotion locked up there.

It left Bruce feeling wrong-footed.

“Every attack leaves an opening, you’ve said this _yourself,”_ said Clark. 

“If you meet the attack—”

“I trust you to take the opening.” 

“By leaving _yourself_ open.”

“It’s never worked for me, being defensive,” said Clark.

As well Bruce knew. He couldn’t help calling back to Superman’s singularly inelegant wording, and returned dryly, “So you choose being ‘offensible’ instead.”

Clark blinked at him, and Bruce let his mouth twitch with amusement. 

Clark was visibly dumbfounded at his reaction. Looking somehow helplessly charmed. Looking somehow in lov—

Bruce’s face fell slack in shock despite himself.

They stared at each other.

The room belled around them, with light if not sound, the Fortress’ crystal structure fracturing Arctic sun. Gravity felt ripped away, as if they’ve been flung into space, emptiness spinning beneath their feet, the room spinning around them. Everything was blue and white and too much, reverberating in the three meters of separation between them.

Bruce didn’t dare breathe.

Into the silence, Clark said, steadily, slowly, softly, “Yes, that’s what I choose. Because I heal quicker, and more completely—” and he drew a deep breath, swallowing words Bruce could only extrapolate. “—than anyone else.” 

_Than_ ** _you._** _We’ve fought together for so long that protecting you is like protecting a piece of myself,_ Bruce heard. But no, that was just his unwary mind going further than was warranted.

Clark barked out a dry laugh. “Even if my healing has gone pear-shaped this time.”

“We’ve seen a lot of ‘pear-shaped’ over the years,” Bruce said cautiously, seeing the newly proffered information for the olive branch it was. But he was frustrated that Clark still didn’t see Superman’s place in the League. _Superman_ was the powerhouse, the keystone that held their strengths and abilities together, the lodestone they oriented themselves by. Before Superman had come onto the scene, they'd been scattered individuals, focused and hidden in their own cities.

 _Why didn’t Clark understand?_ Bruce seethed, but he was willing to put it aside for now to get to the bottom of the current problem.

Clark scoffed. Flushed. “Okay. Look. You don’t have to deal with—” He held up a hand when Bruce moved to disagree. “I’m _serious,_ I’ll tell you what’s going on, but you can still just, um... Leave. Afterwards. If it makes things too weird.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “Clark. Whatever it is, I highly doubt—”

Clark had moved aside. Bruce opened his eyes to see that Clark revealed a mildly disoriented disembodied cock, straining in a cock cage, and for a wild moment, Bruce thought Clark had discovered Bruce’s secret visitors.

But then Bruce darted his gaze towards Clark’s crotch. He thought of the word ‘healing,’ of Clark’s blushes and reticency, of all the disembodied cocks’ tendency to both fly and sunbathe and have impenetrable skin… dusky, impenetrable skin.

Much like Clark himself. 

_Like Clark himself._

_Oh._ Fuck.

Bruce stared. Feeling a little disembodied as well.

—

Clark didn’t blame Bruce for acquiring a bit of a thousand-yard stare. 

He’d been pretty much the same yesterday when he’d woken up from his nap. At first he’d thought his cock cage had somehow worked its way off because he hadn’t woken up with the now-familiar weight between his legs. 

He’d barely taken it off for the past two weeks. The urethral plug had let him urinate; chafing had never been an issue and neither had sleeping with it on (Clark had never been so thankful for his abilities). Additionally it was surprisingly well hidden underneath his clothes and his suit. Arousal had been a constant hum beneath his skin and at the base of his spine, but for once it had been enjoyable instead of a constant source of worry. Clark didn’t have to focus on not being inappropriate. 

He didn’t have to overthink being Superman, or what his appearance was like.

And the pleasure of standing in front of Bruce and knowing that he wore Bruce’s sigil on his cock had been indescribable. Whenever he took off the cage to clean it during showers, Clark had come almost immediately. Blinded by the force. Shocked into feeling every inch of his skin and marrow and bones.

It was addictive.

It was _indecent._

Every day, he’d woken up and glanced down, and just the image of the batlike wings gripping his dick had been enough to give him a thrill, straining against the metal in reaction. He’d taken to sleeping in the nude for the joy of it. 

But yesterday when he’d woken up from his catnap, the cage had been gone. Clark had skimmed his hand over the covers to see if it’d fallen off or if he’d accidentally broken it.

Then the tips of his fingers had brushed against something. Something that _moved._ Felt like skin. He sat up to take a look.

A cock, a very familiar cock, had been twitching in its cage.

It just hadn't been attached to Clark.

Clark had looked down. There had still been a cock in between his legs. Without a cage.

But, like every time he napped in the sun, it’d felt a little raw. 

_Uh._

_Oh, god._

He’d looked back at the detached cock. _His_ detached cock, trapped in the cage he’d bought for himself. Somehow appearing very disoriented.

 _It’s struggling to get itself upright._ _Oh my GOD._

Clark had whipped into his suit, grabbed his cock (the one in the cage), and sped off to the Fortress.

He’d been looking through the database ever since.

It was, of course, just his luck that he hadn’t been able to figure out a solution before Batman had come barging after him due to Superman's absence. 

Most of the files that he'd managed to dig up were anatomical references or dry clinical medical texts describing the purposes of organic structures. He'd eventually found descriptions of the detachment process and how Kryptonian society had created chemical inhibitors to prevent it; he was currently wading through thousands of articles filled with scientific jargon and Kryptonian biochemical engineering, hoping to be able to recreate the serum.

Clark had never even thought to research all this during his original trawl through the database—partially because he’d been more fascinated by the millions of works of art and literary texts the Fortress had made available to him. 

(In hindsight, it made a lot of ancient Kryptonian literary allusions and metaphors considerably more dubious.) 

But also because with medicine in particular, not only was there very little that couldn’t be cured with a bit of sun, but Clark’s basic functions had always appeared similar to those of everyone around him. And the files explaining Kryptonian biology were particularly opaque. There were so many untranslatable terms in the most basic of documents that getting through even a single sentence was headache-inducing.

With Clark's superspeed, two dictionaries (Kryptonian-to-English and English-to-Kryptonian), a couple of high school textbooks, the ‘Codex’, and a file for his notes, he'd managed to cross-reference most terms involved in the Kryptonian introductory sciences by midnight. He’d been up to what he estimated to be high school equivalency but still found himself going around in circles over the jargon until he'd slogged through to the upper level Kryptobiology classes... and then found himself on a detour into physics.

_Huh._

Well if Kryptonians were _also_ 5th-dimensional beings, that maybe explained why Mxyzptlk kept coming around to mess with Clark. 

But Clark… didn’t know how to wrap his mind around what that meant for his abilities. What was more pressing were its implications for Kryptonian engineering and the production of the detachment inhibitor, and he’d just barely begun getting into the logistics of it when Bruce had appeared.

It had always been easier for Clark to talk to Batman, because while speaking to the Dark Knight was frustrating, it wasn't _nerve-wracking._

Unlike talking to Bruce with his cowl off. When the cowl was off, Clark usually managed to tamp down on his reactions so he seemed uneasy rather than infatuated, but it was always a near thing. 

Unfortunately, this time Bruce had called him on it. 

And made it an issue of trust. 

Clark’s throat felt hollow, lungs not big enough, ribs absolutely _brittle_ with how hard his heart was trying to ram through them. Clark absolutely _could not_ let Bruce think there was no trust between them. But just... just showing Bruce his dick? Just like that? Caged? Like _that?_

Clark’s insides curled up in denial and shame. It was not about trust. And yet—

Yet Bruce’s eyes were hard in a way that made it seem like everything was collapsing between them anyway. Like everything Clark had been working towards, proving to even Bruce's most hostile instincts that Clark was trustworthy, would come to nothing. Like all his efforts in trusting Bruce first, extending his hand first, letting himself be open to attack and having faith that Bruce wouldn't strike him where it’d hurt, were meaningless… like everything he’d thought they’d built was fragile instead of strong. 

_Has every careful thing I’ve tried been a mistake?_ These words soured in his mouth, went rancid in his stomach. In the face of Bruce’s anger, he felt pushed backwards, set on his heels.

“Given that I’ve seen you place yourself in front of _immense_ danger with a complete lack of either forethought or self-preservation—” Bruce berated.

“We’ve gone over this! It’s better for me to take the hit than—!”

“If you fall, no one else is strong enough to engage!”

 **_‘No one_ ** _else is strong enough to engage’?_ No. Bruce couldn't think that, he _couldn't_ think that Clark would not expect Batman at his side, fighting with Clark in concert. “If _others_ fall, who will take flank?! I need them there!”

Clark needed _Bruce_ there. He needed Bruce to grasp this. Batman oriented him in place as much as the sun did, and he scrambled to find some way to make the frustrating man _understand._

“Every attack leaves an opening, you’ve said this yourself,” he said, trying to use words that Bruce would use.

“If you meet the attack—”

“I trust you to take the opening.” 

“By leaving _yourself_ open,” Bruce railed, mirroring Clark’s frustration in every line of his body.

“It’s never worked for me, being defensive.” 

Bruce paused. Glanced to the side, and then back. “So you choose being ‘offensible’ instead,” Bruce said, throwing Superman’s fumbling words back at Clark. 

There was something about his mouth that was soft and fond.

And Clark could only look at him and think, _Yes._

_Yes, this is why it had to be you._

Bruce's face went neutral in shock. 

Clark froze. 

He’d lost track of what his face was doing. He’d forgotten to guard himself. He’d left himself open and obvious and—

_Well in for a penny..._

“Yes, that’s what I choose." **_You_ ** _are who I'd choose, of the two of us._ "Because I heal quicker, and more completely.” 

**_You_ ** _are the part of me I can least afford to lose,_ Clark thought. _And also the one that I trust the most._

He had to somehow tell Bruce what had happened to his cock. No matter how embarrassing it was. No matter how much it _might_ make Bruce run. But if he had to trust in Bruce, at the very least he could prepare him slightly for the unnerving sight of a disembodied dick? Clark found himself stumbling over his words.

He had no idea how he was going to explain the cage.

He stepped aside.

And Bruce just... stared. For a while. Turning pale. 

The man came closer, his face vacant, and Superman moved aside to give him more space. 

Batman—and this was _Batman,_ even without the cowl—silently observed the caged-up cock. 

“This is yours,” he stated.

“Yes.”

“You are sure.”

“I know what my penis looks like,” Clark said testily. He watched, full of wariness, as the dick seemed to perk up when Bruce leaned over.

_Oh, no._

Bruce slowly reached down and traced the ribbed edges of the cage, which very much looked like a bat. The cock tried to arch up against his finger as if to say hello.

It was like watching a trainwreck. 

“I meant the cage,” Bruce said.

“Um,” Clark stammered. How in the world was he going to explain why he owned a cock cage? More than one? And that he would be wearing one of his spares now if he hadn’t flown directly to the Fortress, concerned that the cage was part of the reason why it had fallen off?

“You can’t just leave it caged up all the time.” 

And before Clark could stop him (despite being faster than a locomotive, it was like watching a _trainwreck—_ a snail desiccating—a collapsing neutron star, _inexorable—)_ Bruce released it.

It charged immediately at Bruce. Clark dashed forward, hysterically reminded of Quidditch, using all of his speed to catch it and getting a handful of the balls.

It tried to tug out of his grip, so Clark got another hand around the root of the cock.

“Well. This is a sight you don’t see every day.” Bruce stared them down.

Clark blushed.

But then Bruce reached over and pressed firmly at the sensitive triangle of nerves just under the head and the cock _orgasmed_ in Clark’s hands like the mindless thing it was.

It only came a little, but the splatters hit Bruce’s cheek.

 _He’s going to_ **_kill me._ **

Bruce turned to him with an angry expression, cum still on his cheek—because it couldn’t be anything _but_ angry, Clark despaired. But clearly Bruce couldn’t even get any words out. And the Dark Knight’s face did something complicated before he tried again. 

But Batman’s jaw just worked silently.

 _“Oh my god,_ I’m so sorry!”

Bruce whipped around to manually access the Fortress computers, swiping at his cheek absently.

“At least it’s not Mxyzptlk’s cock?” Clark tried, feeling like he was vibrating in place with how godawful the embarrassment was.

“What.”

“Mxyzptlk? He’s also from the 5th dimension?”

Horror crept up around the edges of Bruce’s eyes. 

Then they narrowed. 

_“‘Also’?”_ Bruce demanded.

“Yeah, I just learned today that Kryptonians are also 5th-dimensional?” Clark waved up his research, letting it hang in the air between them. Still wanting to drill himself into the ground.

Bruce gave it a cursory glance. “We will discuss this later.” And then directed his AI queries straight to sociology and animal studies.

_What??_

“They tend to be couched in layman's terms,” Bruce said, catching sight of his face. “And thus more easily translated.” He went back to refining search terms and changing the filters, coordinating with the Fortress AI.

“But why would you need those?” Clark asked, watching Bruce’s ease with his systems with a bit of awe. “Isn’t it a medical issue?”

“Is it,” Bruce stated flatly.

Clark blinked. “Isn’t it?”

“It appears to be a natural process for the native species of your planet.” Bruce pulled up several articles on ancient Kryptonian fauna and spread the holograms in the air around them. 

“But they have an entire system to _prevent_ detachment!” Clark protested, pointing at his own work.

Bruce’s search pinged and brought up a flagged hit. 

It was a draft of a document written by Jor-El. Showing Jor-El’s efforts to get the Council to situationally allow ‘normal’ genital functions. Bruce raised his eyebrow at Clark judgmentally.

“He had like a million scraps of text files, all in one folder, and _none of them were titled!”_ Clark protested in frustration. But quieted as he started reading. 

More and more hits came up. 

The articles spread out and overlapped and made the air dense.

At some point, Bruce had pulled on his cowl. Clark was not sure when because he’d been reading the articles with mounting concern.

His dick had been feeling occasionally raw for years. He'd had a… a _swarm of dicks,_ out there somewhere harassing people. 

For _years._

Clark covered his face.

“Why do you think they’ve been harassing people?” Bruce said.

“I spoke out loud?”

“Would I respond otherwise? And you didn’t answer my question.” The Dark Knight turned to him. 

Clark’s detached cock sat on Batman’s opposite shoulder like a demented parrot.

“This one seems polite enough. If you discount the initial circumstances.”

Clark watched with wide eyes as Bruce reached up to, and there was no other word for it, _pet its head._

The cock arched into the touch.

“They all seem polite enough.”

_What._

“What??” Clark stammered.

“I’ll leave you to read some more and process all this. You know where to find me.”

And with that Batman swept out of the Fortress, cock still perched on his shoulder.

“What just happened?” Clark asked the now-empty room, articles continuing to pop up and hover around him. 

Snowflakes pinged merrily on the Fortress’ roof.

The slightest sound of air displacement as the Zeta tubes worked.

Bruce’s heartbeat, appearing in Gotham.

The cock cage, left behind on the console and weighted with too much that Clark still didn’t understand. 

With hesitation, and uncertainty, Clark reached for it, staring. 

Stopped himself.

Shook himself all over, and started to read, instead. And reread. Words upon words upon words about detachment and swarms and Choosing. Until Clark finally thought he understood.

Except then _nothing made sense._

—

“You ‘meant the cage,’ you said.”

“Hm?”

“You asked me, back at the Fortress, if I meant the cage was mine,” Clark said over the comms on a private line. “Why did you have any question if the _cage_ was mine? Why weren’t you surprised that the _cock_ was?”

“Superman, why did you choose to call me right now?”

If Clark listened very very carefully, he could hear a faint wet sound.

If he let himself free-associate, he kept drifting to the mental image of Bruce, surrounded by a swarm of Clark’s cocks, many of them in various styles of cages. Some of the cages were intimately familiar.

One of them was being opened.

“B, I need to know something. Do you just want—”

“Not over the comms.”

“I didn’t say your name!”

“Not. Over the comms.”

In his mind’s eye, Bruce released the cock from its cage. It was guided by Bruce’s hand to between his buttcheeks, where it began to frot in his crack luxuriously, occasionally gliding in the lube that was fairly dripping from Bruce’s asshole.

“Well, I would have go to to Gotham—!”

“Exactly.”

“—and you seem busy—wait, _what.”_

“Did I stutter?”

Clark was at the manor’s balcony in a blink, still wearing his clothes from work. He knocked, but the door fell open at even that slight pressure. He poked his head in.

“Um, can I come in?”

“‘Can I come in?’” Bruce repeated sarcastically at the ceiling. He was naked on top of his sheets, erection straining. “Save me—” A gasp; Bruce’s hips twitched and he pulled up one knee, foot flat on the bed for more purchase, and spread his thighs in a way that meant Clark could see _everything_ (everything that he’d imagined, that he’d _thought_ was his imagination). “—from overly considerate Boy Scouts.”

“I was never in the Boy Scouts,” Clark complained, mouth dry, even as he drew closer. “But I’m suspecting that you _were.”_

Bruce tilted his head up and glared. “I was no such thing.”

“Batman is always prepared. Multi-skilled. Helpful to people in need.” Clark met Bruce’s eyes steadily. He was close enough now that when their gazes met, he didn’t have to watch… anything else. He felt _cored_ that this was happening in front of him, dangling right there and yet out of reach. “If you weren’t, then you liked their mottos. Or maybe you just _like_ Boy Scouts in general.”

Bruce’s face was stormy. “If you came here to just—”

“Talk to you.” Clark took a steadying breath and forced himself to hold Bruce’s gaze, his heart pounding wildly, his cage a grounding force between his legs. “I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Why.”

Clark took a moment to organize his thoughts, thinking over everything he’d learned. Bruce looked increasingly angry the longer Clark stalled. Clark’s fingers trembled. He told himself to not look down. To not look between Bruce’s legs.

“Spit it out already.”

“You’ve known about my cocks detaching for awhile?”

“About two months now. I didn’t know they were yours.” Bruce slid his eyes away and then slid them back. “At least not consciously.”

“What did you think they were? For that matter, _whose_ did you think they were?”

“There's more than one metahuman in the database who can fly and has impenetrable skin, or whose skin could be made to be so.” 

Clark felt a sudden flare of jealousy, and Bruce _shifted,_ breathing hard with the type of groan that... that Clark knew, somehow, was the sound Bruce made when a cock was pushing into him. Clark told himself to _not look down._ He didn’t have permission yet, and maybe this was another of Bruce’s tests. Maybe this was an expression of Bruce’s rage. Or a punishment. 

“Besides,” Bruce said, “they seemed self-contained. Showed independence. Sentience.”

Maybe this was punishment: Bruce fucking himself on Clark’s disembodied cocks, while all Clark could do was stay at a distance and _watch._ Or force himself not to watch. His jaw hurt. “And that’s all it took?” Clark swallowed and it felt like sand.

Bruce blinked at him.

“For you to—” Clark broke off. Rubbed his hands over his face and then waved at Bruce’s giant bed and the room in general, piled high with a swarm of Clark’s dicks and sex paraphernalia.

_All it took for you to accept them. But not me._

A high flush worked its way across Bruce’s face. Clark told himself not to take it too seriously because the cock fucking into Bruce was increasing its intensity. 

Clark’s legs felt wobbly.

“Can I sit down?”

Bruce nodded. Clark moved a couple of cocks aside to sit near the head of the bed. They were still at least two feet apart, which at this moment equated to roughly the subjective distance between the sun and the nearest star.

Space was empty.

And cold.

“It’s not all it took,” Bruce said quietly. 

“Then what??”

“...they were polite.”

“And that’s _ALL?!”_ Clark burst out, frustrated and angry and awkward.

“What are you really asking, Clark?”

Clark closed his eyes and breathed deep. The scents of sex—of musk and sweat and lube and skin—hung heavy in the air. He choked out, “There were files in the database that said sometimes the Spores are accepted but the Origin Body is not.” Clark lowered his head. “Is that what’s happening here?”

“Did you think I would, what,” and Bruce paused, struggling with his breathing for a moment; Clark opened his eyes, only to see the man pulling his other leg up from the corner of his eye, arching. “—only want your cock?”

Clark shrugged. Glanced around them pointedly.

“Did you think... I would come back, _knowing_ from those files that your cocks could be—could be transmitting this. All this. _Back to you—”_ Bruce was gorgeous when furious, intense and powerful even though he was being fucked so hard his words were scattered. “—and still _do this?”_

“You can be merciless,” Clark admitted. Trying to hide that he wanted to tremble all over. And it _would_ be merciless if Bruce had known that Clark chose him, and still pushed him away.

“That would be cruel,” Bruce gritted out. “You think that I’m—”

 _“It’s not cruel,”_ Clark denied, blushing. It would have been if Bruce had been consciously torturing Clark by sending him tantalizing dreams of what he could never have, but it _wasn't_ if—

“How is it not, if—”

Clark let go of a key. Let it drop onto the bed. 

Right by Bruce’s hand where he was clutching the sheets. It said, loud as anything, _It’s not cruel if I let you._

Bruce loosened his grip. 

Picked the key up, looked at it. Even the cocks in and around him stopped moving.

“It’s not if... if I choose it. If I want you to,” Clark said, awkward and stumbling over his words. “Did you know I ordered three cages? In case one of them broke. For myself, I mean, not just because I needed some way to contain the detached cock I discovered.” He took a deep breath. “I ordered them before Saturday.”

Bruce slowly dragged his eyes away from the key, to glance down at Clark’s crotch. His dick, its cage, twitched at the intense observation, but Clark didn’t know how obvious that would be from underneath his clothes.

“You’re wearing one now.”

Clark nodded, meeting Bruce’s gaze steadily. “So... I’m invested. Have been invested. God, Bruce, my cocks _Chose you._ Doesn’t that tell you something?” Clark huffed and looked around him at the swarm. “But I didn’t want to presume how much of me you were… were willing to engage. So I’m asking.”

Bruce met Clark’s gaze. “You’re asking.”

“Offering,” Clark conceded. “However much of me you want.”

“And if I only want your dick?” 

Clark gestured at the key. 

Bruce hummed. Shook his head, and Clark’s stomach sank, but he pointed the key at Clark and continued, “This is more than just your dick.”

“Huh?”

“You’re trusting me with—” Bruce’s mouth worked. “—with having this key, this access, the knowledge that you’re even still using the cage. _Do you know what I could do with this?”_

“I know you keep over twenty kilograms of kryptonite in the Cave.” Clark smiled gently at him. “More or less.”

“You know that I—” His eyes narrowed. “You’ve _let_ me keep that kryptonite in the Cave.”

Clark reached over and pointed the key away from his face, curling it into Bruce’s palm. “I trust you with it.”

Bruce’s eyes measured him for a long moment.

Clark simply sat there and waited, tilting his head to one side in question.

“Your cocks do the same thing,” Bruce said.

“...what?”

“Their body language.” Bruce held his gaze. “And yours.”

“But you didn’t know they were mine.”

“Not consciously.” Bruce barked a dry, _dry_ laugh. “Go close the door. And come back, since you clearly need exact instructions.”

Clark did so, returning to the bed in a blink. The top sheet rippled a little in his wake. The cock that had been nestled in Bruce started up a slow grind.

“I’m surprised you left the door unlocked,” Clark said, letting his eyes now shamelessly stare between Bruce’s legs.

They spread themselves wider under his gaze.

“Yes. ‘Doesn’t that tell you something?’” Bruce parroted, and then grabbed a handful of Clark’s shirt and _pulled,_ using it to guide Clark until he was holding himself up over Bruce on all fours. “I thought it was clear where I stood on the matter. I was _waiting_ for you. Take your pants off already.”

Clark did, at normal speed, undoing the belt with clumsy hands and then shoving them as far down his legs as his hands could reach. Floated his lower body in the air a little so that he could kick them the rest of the way off. “For the record, what part of this was _clear?”_

Bruce’s hand, still gripping his shirt, tugged him up further until their faces were aligned.

Clark stared back, thrilled with the breathtaking closeness, barely daring to inhale. He watched as Bruce’s eyes flared even darker with arousal. 

_“Clear enough?_ You’re _Superman,_ how is _any_ of this opaque? Why would you—”

Then his eyes dropped to look down their bodies. 

Clark’s gaze dropped too. There, framed by his dangling shirttails, was his cock, in its cage.

Bruce took a shaky breath. “Except that’s just how you are. Restrained. Conscientious. _Polite.”_ The last word was spat out with disparaging frustration, but another shuddery breath followed. 

And Clark wanted to chase it, leaning in, asking, _“Please.”_

Bruce took his mouth, diving in as Clark met him, as Clark dropped down to cover him. Bruce’s other hand dove to cup his cage before they crashed together. The hand gripping his shirt started trying to tear it open.

Clark helped, because _fuck the buttons._ Tossed the metallic Kryptonian crest (which stuck to his chest through means he now understood to be 5th-dimensional, and unfurled into his uniform under mental commands) onto the side table. Bruce tracked it with eyes barely opened before returning Clark’s gaze. Returning to the kiss.

Bruce was shuddering, and this close, Clark could feel how the cock in Bruce’s ass was giving him long slow strokes. He could sense somehow, from the cock itself, how Bruce’s body trembled around him. Welcomed him in. 

Bruce brought both hands down to the cage to trace its shape.

“I'm surprised,” Bruce moaned into his mouth, “that this can contain you.”

Bruce tugged at the cage lightly and Clark whined into his mouth. “I wanted it to.”

“A self-imposed rule,” Bruce murmured thoughtfully. “Like Myx—”

Clark flicked at Bruce’s nipple and tried to swallow the sound straight from Bruce’s mouth. 

When Bruce’s throat stopped moving, Clark pulled back and said, “Don’t you _dare_ say his name.”

“Would it call him here?” Bruce licked his mouth thoughtfully, shakily, and hummed. “That certainly explains your hearing.”

Clark was too busy peppering his jaw with kisses to respond. Too busy pressing his cage into Bruce’s hands, and touching everything that he’d never known he could be allowed to have. If he’d been human he would have had to lean his weight on all fours; he had never been so glad to be alien, sliding his legs along Bruce’s and tangling them together, smoothing his hands down Bruce’s shoulders and sides, and still floating a little over him so that Bruce could put his hands around— 

_fuck, what was—_

“I’m going to remove it,” Bruce said, matching actions to words.

Clark nodded, shuddered, then held himself still, toes curling; busied himself with tasting the arch of Bruce’s cheekbone, the curve of his ear. There were electrifying tugs as the small lock was undone, then some absolutely _shattering_ vibrations coming from the urethral plug.

_“What.”_

“I’m unscrewing the cage from the plug.”

A high-pitched complaint left Clark’s throat as the metal came apart with a jolt, and then the cage was removed and placed… somewhere. He didn’t know or care because his cock hardened with an absolute _rush_ that left him light-headed.

The plug still sitting inside him made everything a thousandfold more sensitive.

Dizzying.

He was being turned onto his back, pressed into the pillows; Bruce sat on his thighs, smirking down at him even as one of Clark’s cocks rode him, still.

_Holy fuck._

Bruce had folded one hand around his balls and tugged downward. “Not yet,” he said, barely waiting for Clark to nod before gripping Clark’s erection and starting to slide the plug out.

Clark had done it to himself before, never quite believing both that the plug could fit _and_ how giant it felt despite being so relatively small; but the plug felt even more immense when Bruce worked it free, each of its ridges sending shocks up his spine. Until his cock was empty.

_“Bruce.”_

Bruce’s eyes bored into him. 

Clark couldn’t tell whether the sounds coming out of his mouth were protesting or begging, couldn’t figure out how loud he was being; his _entire skin_ felt too loose for itself and he was trembling, wanting to reach out and have... have _something._

Something to pin him down and ground him.

Bruce rubbed the pad of his thumb over the tip of Clark’s cock, right across the puffy slit, and Clark's hips _shook_ with how much he wanted to push up and chase that touch. Sounds fell from his throat and he couldn’t be bothered to make sense of them.

“You are, aren’t you?” 

_What? Did I say—_

“Empty.” Bruce let his thumb rub with more intent, and the slide became wet with precome. “I think you’d like me to fix that.” 

Clark gasped, and he was vaguely aware that there might have been a _‘please’_ in there. Maybe there had been...

Maybe he’d been begging all this while, and hadn’t even realized it.

Bruce measured him with his gaze and Clark felt more naked than nude. There was a part of him that still screamed at him to _hide,_ hide _everything;_ that it was better, safer, to try to be Superman here. Or if not that, to try to be mild-mannered instead of shameless. But the rest of him thought that there was no safer place to be than pinned under this man whom he’d come to trust with all parts of his life, both Super and stumbling, both too much and not enough; all of who Clark actually _was._

Clark shifted Bruce off his thighs and scooted up the bed, just far enough so that he could spread his legs under Bruce’s gaze.

“Please.”

Bruce reached between them, holding Clark’s gaze, pressing the tips of two fingers against Clark’s hole. “Really.”

Clark nodded as he greedily clenched against Bruce’s touch. 

_It‘s not enough._ Clark reached a hand towards Bruce _—_

But was anticipated. Bruce pushed his fingers in with a deep delicious burn that had Clark gasping and clutching the sheets instead, trying to spread his legs wider into the pressure, tilting his hips up for Bruce _—_

A pillow was shoved under him.

“Always prepared,” Clark stammered, settling on it, as those fingers started working him open, crooking _‘come hithers’_ and hitting… hitting _something._ Something that made it entirely impossible to stop moaning.

“Like you are, it seems,” Bruce murmured as he abruptly increased the number of fingers to three, then quickly to four—which only made Clark arch harder into the sensations, demanding.

_“Bruce.”_

“Patience.”

Bruce leaned over Clark to reach for the side-table, fingers still working between Clark’s legs, and Clark took the opportunity to put his mouth on Bruce’s shoulder, made conveniently near, sucking kisses all over it.

“What are you getting?”

Bruce dropped lube and a condom onto the sheets. Held up three metal rods for Clark’s perusal. Different diameters.

Dropped the smaller two next to the lube when Clark could only stare at the largest.

“You know what these are?”

Clark nodded and croaked out the words, “Sounds… for. For—”

“Your cock.” Bruce held it out to him. “They seem to enjoy the stimulation. So I got a proper set.”

“You haven’t had a chance to use them yet,” Clark stated with semi-confidence, reaching for the sound with a shaking hand.

“No.” Bruce stared at him. “But you knew that.”

“Didn’t realize it wasn’t just a dream.” He shook his head, getting his hand on the rod.

“Are their transmissions clearer when you sleep?” Bruce asked, with poorly-hidden fascination.

Clark nodded, still twisting the smooth metal rod gently between two fingers.

“Are you getting any sensations from the cocks now?”

His mouth quirked despite himself. “They’re… I don’t get the impression that they’re ‘not me’, if that makes any sense.” Clark looked up. “When I’m dreaming, it’s like I’m here with you, instead of just, well, all this.” He nodded at all his detached dicks, standing at the ready around them.

“And what are they feeling right now?” Bruce insisted, jamming his fingers up into Clark hard and curling against that spot in Clark that made him see stars.

 _What are_ **_you_ ** _feeling right now?_ Clark knew he meant.

“Anticipatory,” Clark gasped. “Eager. And… And—”

And Bruce took his fingers out and Clark made a wild sound in denial.

“—and empty,” Bruce finished for him. “I know.”

Clark stared in incomprehension as Bruce took out the condom and put it on. “Why? Come on,” Clark begged. “Come here—I can’t catch anything.”

“Not even pregnancy?” Bruce grabbed for the lube.

_“What?!”_

Bruce darted his gaze up in disbelief. “How did you miss, in all of that, that Kryptonian ‘genders’ were social constructs to a far greater degree than ours? That for reproductive purposes they’re a single-gendered species?”

“Uh.” Clark’s mind was a haze of white noise at the implication.

“So, condom,” Bruce said, or rather, ‘asked’ in that way that he had, while getting himself a palmful of lube.

_“Yes.”_

“Thought so.” Whereupon Bruce slicked himself up, reached over to lube up the sound in Clark’s hand, and… reached behind himself. Muttered irritably, “I prefer it less dry than you’re becoming.”

And Clark felt himself pulled out of Bruce’s hole, his cock slicked up, before fucking snugly back in.

He gasped, his toes curling at the sensation.

“You forgot all about that one,” Bruce said, even as he was pushing his newly wet fingers back into Clark.

“You distracted me,” Clark protested, rolling his hips into the pleasure of Bruce’s touch within him.

“From your cock warming itself in my ass?” Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“You’re very distracting!”

“So you’re saying you want me to _stop_ distracting you while you get the sound in?” Bruce caressed Clark’s prostate in a tease.

And Clark thought about it, biting back a moan, about holding his dick in one hand while he tried working that rod into the slit of his cock, and he shuddered. Because Bruce would be _watching_ him do it, with that intense focus of his, and assessing and _judging_ Clark’s reactions and movement and uncertainty and—

“I’d rather you do it.”

“Me.”

“What, you think _you’d_ be too distracted? Were we talking about _you_ all this time?” Clark mocked in challenge.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Everything becoming very still.

Then he snarled, practically tore his fingers away from Clark, and then used both hands to push Clark’s thighs up and apart.

 _“I’m_ not the one who’s unfocused. Or jumps to overly-polite conclusions that patently have no proof behind them,” snarled Bruce as he pressed his hips forward, erection catching briefly on Clark’s hole and then sliding away.

Clark made a noise of dismay and reached down to grab ahold of Bruce’s cock to guide him in, sighing as Bruce slid home, watching his shoulders relax with the release of a tension Clark hadn’t even known Bruce carried.

“Makes me think you piss me off on purpose.” Bruce fucked into him once, and then once more, withdrawing almost completely then pushing in with devastating force and it was amazing, _perfect,_ except he _stopped._

_...why..._

“Shhhh,” Bruce murmured as he ran his hand up Clark’s chest and cupped his throat until Clark realized from the vibrations that he was making some embarrassing sounds.

Then made some more as Bruce ground further in, as if to be sure his cock was as deep into Clark as he could get... before carefully reaching over. 

And plucking away the sound that had been in Clark’s grip all this time.

“Still intact,” Bruce murmured, studying it, twirling it once before changing into a delicate sort of grip. Brought his other hand down to Clark’s straining erection.

To hold it in place as he worked the sound in.

“Now stay still,” Bruce demanded. 

And Clark did. Even as Bruce’s name fell from Clark’s mouth, a flurry of sounds, pleas, exhalations. It was a pleasure to say Bruce’s name like that, like releasing a breath held too long, like tasting air for the first time. He felt himself clench tight around Bruce’s cock, quivering. Felt himself grind into Bruce a little bit more. Felt the metal rod go in, wide and _obscene,_ and when it was fully inserted Clark had never felt so pinned in place. Trembling and perfected. And utterly aware of every inch of his skin in a way he’d never had access to, not with so many other things fighting for his time, his attention, his focus.

Bruce’s hand was cupped gently around his cock, but the touch was made _intense,_ a decadent wash of skin, and Bruce’s hand was shaking. Bruce’s face looked _wrecked._ His other arm was bracing him over Clark and he was staring intently at Clark’s face.

Clark couldn’t stop saying Bruce’s name. Fisting the sheets in his hands. Curling his toes as his legs locked around Bruce, who fucked in as deep as he could go.

“You took that well,” Bruce said, fondness, pleasure, and amazement chasing each other across his features. “Good job.”

The words were electric. Clark moaned, convulsing in the grip of the lightning that shot down his spine at Bruce’s words, his orgasm catching him _completely_ by surprise.

 _“Fuck.”_ Bruce curled up a little over him, obviously fighting back his own.

The sound was pushed out about halfway from Clark’s spend. The sensations coming from the rod _alone,_ unforgiving and spreading him wide, were keeping his cock hard. 

Bruce worked it back in, and Clark threw his head back with a cry.

“Too much?”

 _“...more,”_ Clark begged.

Bruce’s hand came up to brace against Clark’s chest. The other was still protectively curled around Clark’s cock.

“Then _fuck me.”_

Clark peered down at Bruce in confusion.

“I’m not talking to you,” Bruce said. Then amended, “Well, not _all_ of you.”

Bruce barely got the words out before his hips withdrew a bit from Clark’s and then were slammed forward again. A high sort of wail escaped from Bruce’s throat and a curse followed close on its heels.

Clark gasped, more from the friction than because it was an especially good angle. More from the look on Bruce’s face. More from feeling Bruce’s hole clench around his detached cock and being utterly surprised at how _immediate_ it was.

Clark felt himself twitch in the grip of Bruce’s hand, and Clark felt himself thrust between the cheeks of Bruce’s ass, felt his ass fucked by Bruce’s cock with that same motion, and it was an ouroboros of sensation so complete that Clark could do nothing but ride it out mindlessly.

“Tilt a little bit—no, not you... keep your hips right there,” Bruce ordered, and Clark could do nothing but comply.

Bruce was staring at him as if Clark was the most important thing in the world, skin flushed and dripping sweat, mouth bitten plump. Gasping, as if that was the only way he could breathe.

Words fell out with those same breaths, like Bruce didn’t realize he was saying them.

“Like you were made for this,” he praised, while Clark was being held in every which way. 

Clark was forcing his eyes open, could barely keep them from falling shut, could barely keep himself breathing; clenched down on the cock reaming him open, reached up to run fingertips across Bruce’s cheek.

“Let me,” Clark whispered.

And Bruce did. Nuzzling into Clark’s hand and laying a kiss on the palm. Saying, _“beautiful,”_ quietly into its creases as if Bruce could hide it there.

Clark felt unraveled by the word, by Bruce’s saying so. And by his hand, finally, _finally_ allowed to cup Bruce’s cheek.

“Bruce,” he begged, and he didn’t know for what.

—

There was something infinitely outrageous about Superman begging for anything. Something sacrilegious about the fact that he was here, spread out on Bruce’s bed, on Bruce’s cock, in raptures.

Bruce held Clark’s dick, sensitized and stuffed full, in his hand, and it was about the only thing that made everything feel real. This was not a dream that he would have to pack carefully away in the morning; not thoughts that he wouldn’t let himself mull over.

That he _couldn’t_ let himself mull over.

In the company of the superhuman, the alien, and those who’d been bequeathed powers by the universe, be they technological or magical or divine, Batman stood apart as simply a very resourceful human. Rich in resources both of mind and of property, true, but nothing close to the gifts given to others. The fact that he could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the League instilled in him not only a certain pride but also a deep wariness.

There was a very thin margin of error afforded to him in circumstances where others in the League would have far more leeway. More situations, for Batman, that could lead to death or serious injury. More situations that could lead to failure, rather than success. Granted, this margin of error could be increased with enough preparation, but it was still hair-raisingly thin.

And Bruce had Gotham to protect. It was at least as important as any other duty he took upon himself to keep all those well-meaning heroes from barging in; because they didn't know the city’s history, didn't understand the way people fell into its cracks. Sometimes a job with a villain like the Joker or the Penguin was all that kept a family fed. Others in the League would not know the identities of the GCPD's undercover detectives. Nor would they know which of the mobs and gangs did more good than harm, keeping out even worse entities and actually holding to their promises of protection.

So Bruce could not afford to be injured, or worse, and leave Gotham unguarded. And he could not afford to have the League turn on Batman.

The League was swayed by Superman’s opinion more than either the other superheroes or Clark himself was aware. They oriented themselves by his inherent goodness (inherent _humanity,_ despite his genes) for each of their various reasons. For some heroes, there was a subconscious element of fear and respect for Superman’s limitless abilities. For most others, Superman’s sincerity, earnestness, and honesty led them to value his point of view.

If Clark shunned someone, whatever the reason, the League would similarly have a cold or disrespectful response towards that person. If Clark was upset, a League member would look into it. 

So Clark receiving an unappreciated romantic overture and reacting poorly to it? 

_Catastrophic._

Therefore Bruce had had absolutely every reason not to deviate from his initial patterns of interaction with Clark. With _Superman,_ who could hear heartbeats and breathing patterns, and picked up on whatever other data was available to him from whichever senses were enhanced. Probably all of them.

 _Can he smell arousal?_

Alarming.

It had been in no way appropriate, for the sake of his margin of error, for Bruce to desire Clark. Not even in the safety of his own mind. Meditation, distraction, and focus helped him push aside most of it. Physical distance helped with the rest.

_But there’s no distance now._

Bruce was rocked forward by the disembodied cock’s thrust, mouth opened into a cry, face cradled by Clark’s large warm hand. Clark’s thighs flexed against his sides. When Bruce ground his cock up into Clark even more, a high-pitched sound left Clark’s throat. Mostly Bruce’s name, pleading him… pleading for?

Clark’s gaze never left Bruce, as if the sight of _Bruce_ brought him higher. But all Bruce felt was feverish and wild, in disarray as he chased pleasure both Clark’s and his own. They moved like that for awhile, Bruce feeling almost out of his _mind_ with it, when suddenly Clark’s gaze broke.

Superman tilted his head, as if listening. Remote. 

_Alien._

Bruce flicked at the rod in Clark’s cock angrily. And Clark gasped, sky-blue eyes pulled back to him.

“Take your _own damn advice._ The League is there for a reason. To help each other.”

Clark’s mouth worked.

“The others are monitoring. You’re off-schedule. My communicator is on the table.”

They both looked, and the device was dark and silent. 

“But I should be—”

“Here,” Bruce insisted. “You should be here.” He placed his hands on Clark’s hips and then ran them up Clark’s sides and Clark’s chest, letting himself lean his weight onto Clark fully. It was a terrible angle for Bruce, and his dick slipped partway out—even though it continued nudging into Clark with every thrust of the disembodied cock still working Bruce’s ass. 

But it didn’t matter, because he’d rather pin Clark down. Body and gaze both.

Clark looked uncertain.

“You’re where you’re supposed to be.” Bruce paused at the expression that elicited, then ventured, “You’re important.”

No change. Bruce recalled their argument in the monitor room, of their many interactions big and small, of the reactions of Clark’s cocks to praise, and a realization fell into place inexorably.

“You’re _enough,”_ Bruce said. Wondering _how. How could this be what he needs?_

Clark’s mouth was a fine tremble.

“You’re _good,_ Clark.” _How does he not know this?_

There was a thin sheen of tears in Clark’s gaze.

Bruce's mouth opened. “You’re so good.” Words fell out. “Be here with me.” Bruce kept on murmuring, not even quite knowing what he was saying anymore; just that Clark needed it, and therefore Bruce would _gut_ himself to give it. “Be here. You're meant for this. _Beautiful.”_ He ground into Clark. “I look at you and it lets me, lets me be—” 

_“Bruce,”_ Clark gasped, twisting against him. 

“Yes. That.” Bruce wound his arms around Clark’s shoulders, dropping onto him fully so that they were pressed tightly together all along the length of their bodies. “I'd be destroyed if—”

 _“No,_ what, stop saying—”

 _“Without you._ I'd be destroyed,” Bruce rushed out, _gutted,_ stomach icy, throat tight, before Clark could interrupt. Then amended, “In ten years.”

 _“No.”_ Warm hands cupped his face. Wetness played at the corner’s of Clark’s gaze. “I’m not—”

“Maybe twenty,” Bruce insisted, trying to make him understand.

“Not this. _Don’t._ You don’t need to, to do this,” Clark stammered out.

But Bruce had never seen Clark this wrecked over some simple words. Never so much in denial of a Truth; and this was one that Bruce had always quietly known. “A shadow of myself.”

“You’re already a shadow.” Clark’s eyes crinkled past that sheen of tears. 

“So even less than that.”

“Bruce, you’re—”

“Listen to me, Clark, _listen to me,_ listen. Just be here.” Clark was shaking his head in denial and Bruce pushed himself back up, regretfully making Clark’s hands fall away. Clark’s eyes had started to look to the side again, past him, distracted, unfocused, but Bruce had the leverage now to fuck into him, _hard._ “Be _here._ Keep still so _I can fuck you.”_

Clark gasped and threw his head back. Glorious.

He’d always been glorious, from the first moment that Bruce saw him. Untouchable, golden, divine. Unreachable by the likes of Bruce; he'd often been surprised Clark even sought his friendship. Clark, who had family. Clark, who was likable. Clark, who didn’t _need_ to move through the world experiencing Bruce’s prickly self. Who didn’t need to deal with all the vast tragedies of foolish humans, either, and yet he stayed and helped. Stayed and kept the “Clark Kent” persona with all its disadvantages like it was the most necessary of his powers.

How could Bruce do any less?

How could Batman contain himself to Gotham when Superman, who didn’t even come from _Earth,_ did so much to protect them all?

How could he _not_ speak up and advocate for those who were simply human (or even just less than practically invincible) in a League of heroes, despite his own misgivings as to whether he belonged among them? 

But Clark had asked him to be. 

Not Superman, but _Clark_ had asked, and advocated for a group to handle situations bigger than any of them could handle alone. There had been a certain vulnerability in his eyes in that moment that Bruce had later discounted, because thereafter Superman simply maintained his modus operandi, and kept arriving on the scene of situations all over the world. Ineffable. Godlike.

Superman had seemed to be able to handle practically everything alone.

It had been infuriating, because then _why_ had the League been formed? Frustrating, because that meant Clark thought the rest of them weak. Disquieting, because it was… was humbling. 

It had only been recently, since their argument in the monitor room, that Bruce had had an inkling of how much Clark had been overextended when he’d operated alone. Of how much Clark also leaned on the League in return. 

And then it became humbling in a different way.

For now Bruce felt humbled; exhilarated by it and disbelieving with it. Even as he pressed Clark down, at his solar plexus, to fuck him harder, murmuring all the while. Even as he gripped Clark’s erection, stiff enough to probably literally drill diamonds. Even as Clark’s cock fucked him roughly and more and more disjointedly, as Clark’s mouth opened as if to scream, and Bruce knew from experience with Clark’s detached cocks that Clark was about to—

 _“Come,”_ Bruce demanded.

Clark gasped, a thin reedy sound, movements becoming more desperate, thighs around Bruce’s waist trying to pull him closer, eyes wild.

“Clark, _what do you need?”_ Bruce hissed, but it felt like begging; _he_ felt like begging, he was already thrusting as hard as he was able and felt the burn in his muscles about to turn sharp.

Clark reached up, hand trembling, towards Bruce’s face, and Bruce leaned down far enough to meet it. 

His finger traced Bruce’s mouth.

Bruce opened readily, breathed the tip of Clark’s finger in and kissed it, with a light suck.

The body below his jackknifed up, clenching hard in patternless overstimulation, cock pulsing and pulsing until even the rod was pushed out, Clark’s eyes wild; Clark’s mouth was moving, saying… saying— 

_please_

Over and over again. And something else, he was whispering something else that slotted into meaning even as Bruce was hurtled into orgasm by the feel of Clark shaking apart in and around him.

_please keep me_

The sensation went on and on, Bruce himself was quivering _endlessly._ He felt jolted out of his skin, unable to brace against it and unprepared for its entirety. He could barely feel himself afterwards, an ongoing out-of-body experience, trembling with it, legs practically numb, hands unsteady.

Unsteady, but it didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter; Bruce barely let the aftershocks settle before he lunged for the side table.

Where he grabbed the discarded cock cage.

Clark was still shuddering himself, dusky-skinned and starfished and limp, but he’d turned his head to watch Bruce. 

Bruce slipped off the bed. Legs feeling weak, he let himself go to his knees, turning to face Clark.

“Bruce, what are you doing?”

“Slide towards the edge,” Bruce said, reaching out to pull Clark towards him.

Clark let himself be tugged by one arm, not so much sliding over the sheets as floating across, barely a millimeter above them. His face was tired, languid... amused. 

It stayed that way as Bruce maneuvered him so that Clark was sitting on the edge of the bed. 

But then Bruce dropped the cock cage next to Clark’s hips. Placed his hands on Clark’s knees and met his eyes.

Clark’s irises dilated. They grew large and dark, his breaths growing short. 

They stared.

Clark spread his legs. Or maybe Bruce pushed them apart. Or both of them did. 

He couldn’t tell.

It let Bruce get closer, still kneeling. And then Bruce grabbed the base of the cage that held it all together, and slid the ring carefully onto Clark’s cock, threading his balls through it.

Clark was trembling, but marshaling the movement, skin brightening every second.

Bruce couldn’t look up. He was making sure that the ring was settled properly into place. He was… 

He was trying to remember how to breathe.

“I do,” said Clark. With false levity. 

Bruce darted his eyes up but Clark only looked back at him with such gentle fondness and all-consuming acceptance that he couldn’t meet Clark’s gaze for long.

“I don’t propose on a first date,” Bruce chided. But he hoped that his touch conveyed the reverence he felt, as he carefully slipped the other parts of the cage onto, and into, Clark. His hands were still shaking from the aftershocks, of course. He did it slowly, because he had to make sure he was doing it correctly. 

Clark himself was unmoving, barely breathing, skin pale and lit up as if beneath it... beneath it, he contained nothing but light.

Bruce cupped the end result in both hands for a moment and stared, in astonishment. 

Superman’s cock, in a cage of Bruce’s own making.

It was an unfathomable vision _(how could anything of Bruce’s dare hold him?)_ interrupted by a finger delicately tracing the edge of the cage.

Clark’s finger.

Bruce looked up. 

Clark was looking down at himself in his cage with just as much awe as Bruce was trying to hold in his chest. A smile was trembling itself into existence across Clark’s mouth. 

Clark looked up. 

Bruce felt Clark’s eyes like a mallet to his chest, at every place he’d held himself back; felt the air escape his lungs, felt himself _break_ under it. Felt an expression spread across his face that he didn’t dare let himself name.

Felt himself rise up and kiss Clark in a heady rush. Finally.

_Finally._

Clark met him with just as much enthusiasm. It felt like a benediction. Or maybe finally breathing.

“You know, I didn't think I could ask,” Clark said against his mouth.

“Ask?” Bruce murmured.

“This of you. Anything like this, of you.”

“What is ‘this’?”

Clark froze. “Um am I reading this right, do you want me in... In—”

“In my bed? Yes,” Bruce said impatiently, settling back onto his knees to stare, his weight against his heels. “In my ass? Clearly.”

Clark’s gaze darted around uneasily.

“In my life?” Bruce guessed, thinking of Clark’s ‘joke’. “The entirety of our multiple lives?”

Clark nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“There’ll be some logistical difficulties,” Bruce pointed out.

“I figured.”

“But you… need it. Us. A relationship,” Bruce stated.

Clark looked away. “I don’t, I don’t really _need—”_

Bruce’s hands tightened gently around Clark’s dick, and Clark’s voice caught.

“But you want it,” Bruce said ruthlessly, “enough to need it.”

“Not if _you_ don’t want it,” and his fingers wove themselves through Bruce’s. 

There was a weighted silence. To fill it, Bruce let his thumb skim where their fingers met, stroking at Clark’s cock through the cage.

“...are you waiting for me to say something.” Bruce felt his mouth quirk up and allowed it to become visible. 

Hooked his fingers into Clark’s, and let that be his answer.

The look that stole over Clark’s face as he understood Bruce’s meaning was indescribable. 

“I didn't think I could ask,” Clark repeated. But awed, this time. Quietly, as if to himself.

“I didn't think you _wouldn't_ ask, if you’d ever had the inclination,” Bruce replied. 

“I didn't think you could ever want it.”

Bruce inclined his head in slight acknowledgement. “I don't let myself want what isn't possible.”

Clark burst out laughing, helplessly. “You wanted a disembodied cock instead?”

“Maybe I needed things to be a little less immediate.”

“Or a little more detached?”

“No,” Bruce retorted. “That’s you.”

 _“Oh my god.”_ Clark groaned in disbelief, and started laughing harder, and hauled Bruce up until they were lying tangled up in bed, arms folded around each other, foreheads touching.

Bruce let the pleasure of it warm his stomach, soften his gaze.

 _“Oh my god,”_ Clark repeated quietly, gratefully, then gleefully, letting his hand drift down Bruce’s back, down between his cheeks, and fingering at the cock still nestled in him. “It’s still there? You like ‘em so much, you gotta put a ring on them too.”

_What._

Bruce let the amusement bubble in him until it was too much, overflowing as helpless laughter, leaning his forehead heavily against Clark’s. The laughter was utterly unlike him. But it was fine. 

It was fine.

Clark would keep it secret. And safe.

—

“ ‘So Bruce you know how I was literally raised in a circus—’ No, that’s terrible.” Dick turned and paced in the other direction, the hallway carpet muffling his steps. “ ‘I feel like I’m wasting my time in college when—’ “

Dick suddenly folded his arms and adopted a stern expression and a deep voice. “ ‘Dick, you Need to develop your Research Skills.’ ” 

He clutched his head, and dropped to a squat to think. While Metropolis University was prestigious, it just wasn’t working out. He couldn’t get interested in the classes and always felt jittery and out of place and like he could be doing something more important.

He needed to drop out. But he also needed to let Bruce know. He’d been planning this for weeks, keeping an eye on the news for a lull in League activity, asking after Barbara and Alfred to hopefully catch Bruce after a successful mission. Alfred had been holding Dick off from visiting for a couple days now, despite crime being slow, then had called this very morning.

(“Master Dick. If you, I presume, come bearing bad news... this is a better time for that than most.”)

And now he found himself stalling.

“Fuck it.” Dick stood up, crashed through the door to the solar where Alfred had indicated Bruce had holed up and opened his mouth— 

“Bruce, I—” 

There were dildos stacked up on every available sunlit surface. 

Some of them had colorful rings around the base. 

A few were contained in cock cages.

Some of them were. Moving?

A couple of dicks perked up and turned to face… Dick. 

_Um. What the actual fuck._ “Never mind. I see you have bigger problems.”

“I wouldn't call them big, exactly,” Clark stammered. 

“I wouldn't call them problems,” Bruce opined.

“Wouldn’t you?” Clark lowered his hands from his beet-red face and placed them on his hips. “Don’t you think they might’ve also been affected by the yellow sun?”

“Hmm?”

Dick looked rapidly back and forth between the two men, completely confused. Wondering if he should slowly back out the door.

“The records indicate, um, that the cocks should degrade once the Chosen responds.”

“And some species eat them.”

Clark’s face paled as quickly as it felt like Dick’s did. Several dicks floated up from their surfaces in alarm. 

Floated as in: flying.

Dick is. He’s having a Suspicion. 

This is Suspect.

“But no,” Bruce continued, “I don’t think these are edible, and they do seem to be affected or powered by sunlight as well. And therefore practically indestructible.” 

Dick stared at the Kryptonian, and there was really no reason for the guy to be so flustered unless these _were_ his cocks, somehow, lying naked as you please all over the furniture. Then he switched back to staring at Bruce, who was unconcernedly guiding the alarmed floating cocks back down into their piles. Arranging them like they were some sort of alien topiary.

Instead of stacks of genitalia in _Martha Wayne’s sunroom._

There was really only one person that Bruce ‘I’m Batman’ Wayne was willing to be this absurd for.

 _It was a long time coming, to be quite honest,_ Dick thought, eyeballing the way Clark was orienting himself toward Bruce—much more obviously than he would normally. And the way that Bruce was avoiding Clark’s glances with much the air of a passive-aggressive cat; that is, with many obvious sidelong glances and a lot of unnecessary self-grooming.

And Bruce was moving with the slightest hint of a limp, which, given how much the guy refused to show any weakness whatsoever, must have indicated a _really_ intense round of—Dick glanced across the room, and mentally course-corrected— _several_ intense rounds of sex.

“So. You’re… what?” Dick pondered out loud in response. “You’re just gonna to _keep_ giving them sun?”

“What can I say? I’m attached.”

Clark started sputtering, but Dick nodded. 

It was good to see Bruce letting himself be more connected.

art by SDeeyS [More [here](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/728902)]

  
—

“By the way, I’m engaged. Basically.”

“WHAT.”

—

(The End!) 

art by SDeeyS [More [here](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/728902)]

  


(Sorta)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Because I can't get over this](http://insidepulse.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/Batman-36-DC-Comics-Universe-spoilers-5.jpg). ([source](https://insidepulse.com/2017/12/09/dc-comics-rebirth-universe-batman-36-spoilers-superman-lois-lane-meet-batmans-fiancee-catwoman/))
> 
> [Nor Bruce's collection of Kryptonite](https://www.reddit.com/r/batman/comments/1t6vuz/batman_because_not_even_superman_is_incorruptible/), lol.
> 
> Much love and thanks goes to my team of artists and betas! Please do check them out and give them love in the links!
> 
> Meanwhile, the fic is (sorta) at an end because... ok frankly, I have a pile of outtakes and requests from the Team spawning from various convos that I'll post as another fic in this series. I'm willing to take ficlet prompts too in the comments if some bit of the fic strikes you as needing expansion, so let me know! 
> 
> Eggplant emojis are also both expected and appreciated, jsyk. ;D

**Author's Note:**

> The physical dimensions of Clark's dick is in no small part influenced by [this](http://en.inkei.net/Superman). Alternately tho, when you put Clark's name into the analyzer [he's a chubby dumpling.](http://en.inkei.net/Clark)
> 
> Things my googlesearch has witnessed includes [What is the average penis size for a 6'3" man](https://www.quora.com/What-s-the-average-penis-size-for-a-63-ma) and < a href="https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2015/03/how-big-average-penis">How big is the average penis. And you don't wanna know how much research I did on how much is the average come and further conversion into drops. (Whales, tho wild, proportionally comes only like a couple ml more if they are sized for a 6ft man.)
> 
> "Though easily the most powerful of Superman's recurring enemies, the scope of Mxyzptlk's true potential is limited by his personality." ([Source](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mister_Mxyzptlk))

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Limitless Undying Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19642900) by [cattyk8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattyk8/pseuds/cattyk8)




End file.
